Returning the Love
by OptimisticLady
Summary: It's been seven months since Sherlock died, John is gone, and Katrina is on her own. Is working for Mycroft really the best idea to escape a mundane life? Settling into a routine after being so traumatised won't be easy... Sherlock/OC. Post-Reichenbach/Series 3. Second of a trilogy.
1. Supposed To Be

"Is this really necessary?"

"You need to look smart, Miss Jenkins, otherwise you won't fit in."

Katrina grumbled in the changing room a little as she pulled on the designer skirt that was just a little bit too tight. She began to wonder why she had accepted the job in the first place, considering that suits were not her forte.

"Why not trousers?" she called back to Anthea.

"None of them are appealing," she was beginning to sound frustrated. "Besides, Mr Holmes is more than happy to let you continue wearing your jumpers, but the jeans are a no, I'm afraid. Let's see the skirt."

Sighing, Katrina unlocked the door and pulled it open. Anthea gave her the once over before nodding in approval.

"Perhaps the blazer isn't necessary. You look perfectly fine as you are."

"Oh thank god." Katrina couldn't keep the relief off her face, something which Anthea ended up smirking about. She then peeled off the blazer and was left standing in the grey skirt, a nice white shirt with her blue jumper over the top of it. "What about now?" She placed her hands on her hips.

"Wonderful. I'm sure Mr Holmes will be pleased that you're beginning to enjoy this."

"Who said I was enjoying this?" Katrina quietly muttered in question as she made her way back behind the curtain in order to change into her normal clothes. Mycroft had been very vague about the details of the job, but she supposed that was more to do with the fact they had been communicating over the phone and he could be a paranoid person at the best of times. Not that that was a _bad_ thing, it just meant that in this instance, Katrina was going into a new job completely blind – aside from the tidbit that the job was 'perfect' for her.

As soon as she was done, Katrina picked up the nice new skirts and jumpers and brought them out to Anthea. Together, they shared the load of clothing between them as they went up to the till and paid for them. If there was one thing that Katrina was glad about, it was that she didn't have to pay for her work clothes. That was a relief, because the numbers that it came to made her inwardly shudder.

 _Thank you, Mycroft..._ she thought, as they finally left the store almost an hour and a half after they had entered.

The drive back home was done in absolute silence. Katrina was thankful for that – she wasn't entirely sure what she thought of Anthea, and didn't exactly want to be friends with her. She was going to be joining the woman in working for Mycroft within the next week, there was no way in hell she was going to get cosy with her. Besides, Anthea wasn't even her real name, that much was obvious. In fact, the woman herself had made it very clear. If Katrina was going to enter a job which would occasionally require lying, then she wasn't going to get too close to anybody she interacted with.

 _Except you're already close to Mycroft..._ a little voice at the back of her head told her.

 _I know that, but that was hardly my fault, is it? He was the one who kept popping up,_ she argued back.

 _And yet you're the one who accepted the job._

"Miss Jenkins?" Anthea's voice shook her out of her thoughts. "We've arrived. Also your hand is shaking."

"Oh." Katrina stared down at her right hand, and tried and succeeded in making it stop. "Right. Thank you. I'll see you next week."

"Perhaps. It depends." Anthea's gaze dropped back down to her phone. Katrina rolled her eyes and got out of the sleek black car, taking her things from the boot and making her way up the steps to 221B. She just about managed to open the door with her keys before entering and dumping the bags, so that she could shut and lock the door more securely. Then she went a gave a quick knock on Mrs Hudson's door, knowing that the woman would probably want to see the new clothes she had for work.

Katrina didn't bother waiting for the landlady – she just wanted to let her know she was back in the building – and took her shopping bags and went upstairs to the homey living room of 221B. She'd moved in the day after she had booted John from the flat, and now, three days later, Katrina felt more at home than she ever did back in her old flat. She had told the landlord over there to rent it out as soon as possible, because there was no way she was coming back this time.

As she did every time she entered the living room, Katrina stared between the blue chair and the red chair, before decisively sitting on the sofa. That had always been her spot, she realised, and while she may have taken to occasionally stealing the spots of Sherlock or John when she was living with them, it was something that she couldn't bring herself to do now.

Eventually she heard the footsteps of the little elderly lady coming up towards the room, and Katrian smiled at Mrs Hudson as she came in.

"Success?"

"Sort of, yes. Well – yeah, it was. I don't know why I said 'sort of,'" Katrina paused a moment. "You know, I never realised that buying nice clothes could lead you up to four digit numbers..."

Mrs Hudson made a face.

"Well, at least Mycroft was paying for it, right?" she asked as she started looking through the bags and taking things out in order to see what they looked like, maybe even give it a compliment. Katrina felt a little sheepish, noticing that she'd never really spent that much time with another woman for... well, quite a long time, actually. Yes, she may have been with Anthea for some of the day, but she didn't really count Anthea because she didn't like the other woman enough.

It was going to take some getting used to of it just being her and Mrs Hudson most of the time. It was going to feel strange for quite a while, but hopefully a routine would settle into place soon.

Eventually, after the lack of information Katrina could provide Mrs Hudson about the new job, the landlady retreated downstairs to her own flat and left the younger woman alone. After she was sure that she wouldn't come back, Katrina wandered over to the skull on the mantelpiece and lifted it, revealing a pack of cigarettes that had been hidden there for at least the better part of ten months.

Sauntering over to the desk, Katrina opened the left hand drawer and dug around for a couple of minutes until she had found the lighter. With both of these in hand, she made her way upstairs to John's old room and opened the window. Pocketing both the packet and the lighter, she carefully began to climb out of the window and steadily work her way upwards towards the roof.

Admittedly, climbing up was a little harder than climbing down, as she remembered from what seemed like another life...

There was also the fact she should be avoiding roofs at all costs. But she wasn't going to let what happened to Sherlock affect her too much. She was slowly trying to mend herself from that entire indicent that ended with his death. Going onto a roof might help. Facing her fears and all that.

She got there, though, and sat precariously on the top of the roof. Katrina didn't particularly fancy sliding down to what could be her imminent death. All the same, there she was, perched on the roof top of 221B Baker Street while the sun was going down – it registered in her mind as an extremely cliché moment as she pulled out the cigarettes and decided to light one.

She'd never smoked before in her life until today. She didn't know what drew her to them in the first place. It seemed random to just do something as destructive as this, but Katrina felt it needed to be done. Since being back at 221B, Katrina realised how docile her life had become and she didn't like it in the slightest. She had accepted the fact that she still needed to get better, but sitting and festering in a quiet life was apparently not the way to go about it for her.

Katrina needed something more excited. She needed to keep her mind occupied. That was exactly why she had finally taken up Mycroft on the job offer. She knew that it would be intellectually stimulating. Mycroft wouldn't let her down in that department – she'd be working for the British government after all. At least, that was what she assumed she was going to be doing. Mycroft had really left her blind on that front...

She started coughing and spluttering. Grimacing, Katrina stared down at the cigarette in her hand. Poisonous. Disgusting. She could get used to it, since that was often how she felt about herself. Shaking it off, she continued to take drags from the little death stick. It was easier with each breath. Maybe that was how life might go – it might get easier with every breath she took. That's what Katrina was beginning to hope. If not... then she'd have to find other ways to make it easier.

This really was a cliché moment.

Self-reflection at sunset whilst smoking? She wasn't an angsty teenager; she was a thirty year old woman who apparently needed a break. It was safe to say that Mrs Hudson wouldn't be impressed if she knew what Katrina was doing right now. It needed to be done. It was going to become a bad habit, obviously, a bad habit that Katrina needed to keep hidden. As long as she kept it down to one a day and kept hiding the cigarettes in a different place everyday, then it should be fine.

"Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine," she said to herself. Katrina frowned, remembering when Sherlock had a hissy fit and said those exact words because she wouldn't come to Baskerville with him and John. "Well, anything you say five times is _obviously_ true," she then murmured – that was what she had said to him in response.

Her cigarette was done with for now, so she tossed it down onto the street. It was cold, but then again it was still winter. So she tucked her hands into her coat pockets and simply remained still on the roof. It was surprisingly quite peaceful up here. Maybe the roof-sitting could count as a good habit – one that she could use to get away from it all – to counteract the bad habit of smoking. That was fair, right?

"Fair, but stupid. I could die..." Katrina sighed. "I should really stop talking to myself. They say it's the first sign of madness – and I don't even live alone, technically. I've seen Mrs Hudson everyday since moving back here... Jesus. I should shut up now..."

Katrina was starting to rethink the idea of coming to sit up on the roof as a means of something peaceful to do.

Then her phone started buzzing, and she realised someone was trying to call her. Glancing down at the ID, Katrina was surprised to see it was Mycroft. Usually he would text.

"Yes?" Katrina didn't hide her disdain.

" _I believe the trip with Anthea went well?"_

"Yep."

" _Good. Good. I would apologise for keeping you in the dark, however it is necessary."_

"How the hell did you know what my stance was on that?" She mouthed a 'what the fuck' down into the receiver.

" _It was to be expected."_ A pause, and then: _"I'd be careful up on that roof, if I were you."_

"...I'm not even going to ask how you know that."

" _I thought you would be avoiding roofs?"_

"So did I, admittedly... but the roof of 221B holds special memories for me." Her tone was almost dry when saying that. Perhaps even slightly bitter.

" _Ah yes. The first case you were a part of with my brother. Hmm, I can see why you would go up there now. Try not to become to sentimental, Katrina."_ Was he _amused_ , for some reason? She couldn't quite tell.

"Remember, Mycroft, I'm not you."

Silence.

" _No. You're not. I'll see you on Monday."_

The line went dead, and Katrina put her phone away.

Sighing, she was tempted to light another cigarette, yet couldn't bring herself to. She kept her hands in her pocket, and soon realised that someone had their window open, because music was floating up to her ears.

So she sat and listened, grateful for something other than cars to listen to.

 _Sat on the rooftop, watching the birds flying free  
_ _Watching the clouds walk, and watching the rain become the sea  
_ _Hearing my love talk, and every breath she ever breathes  
_ _Like it was always supposed to be like that_

 _But then we broke up  
_ _She went west and I went east  
_ _She got a new boyfriend, a little too soon if you're asking me!  
_ _But I've heard that she loves him a little bit more than she'll ever love me  
_ _And it was always supposed to be like that_

 _I look to the skyline and say how many falls until I fly?  
_ _Look to the old times and say how many wrongs until i'm right?  
_ _I know it's tough now, cause love always, love always is unkind_

 _I sat on the rooftop and I watched the birds flying free  
_ _I watched the clouds walk and I watched the rain become the sea  
_ _And just for a moment, just for a moment I felt so free  
_ _From all I'm supposed to be_

 _I look to the skyline and say how many falls until I fly?  
_ _Look to the old times and said how many wrongs until i'm right?  
_ _I know it's tough now, cause love always, love always is unkind_

It fit her well enough. It was lucky it hadn't been raining, actually, despite it being in the last legs of winter.

Eventually, she decided it was time to get down from the roof – preferably before she ended up slipping and falling off of it.

The room that used to be John's room was now her room. She couldn't bring herself to keep using Sherlock's room, not while he was dead.

She changed into a pair of joggers and a tank top before checking everything downstairs was turned off. When she was satisfied, Katrina went back and crawled into bed eagerly awaiting for Monday to come in two days, so that she didn't have to live such a mundane life anymore.

* * *

 **Welcome to the next instalment of my Sherlock trilogy! Hopefully aiming to make chapters a bit longer, and I feel like this is where things really kick off in terms of action. If you've clicked on here and have no idea what's going on, go back and read the first story "Returning the Favour" so you know what's up. ;)**

 **Leave a comment?**

 **-OL.**


	2. Monday Morning

Finally it was Monday. The first day of her new job. If she were more sane, Katrina would probably be a bag of nerves at the current moment but considering everything she had been through... there was no point in even letting herself feel nervous. She had started new jobs before, albeit this one was a slightly more important job.

She showered and dressed in those ridiculous designer clothes that Mycroft had bought for her, and was making her way through a cup of coffee when there was a knock on the door. She frowned and downed the rest of her beverage, somewhat cautiously making her way downstairs to see who it was.

"Anthea?" Katrina couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Mr Holmes wanted you to be escorted to the premises on your first day. He'd rather you learn the route that way."

Why did Anthea always sound so unimpressed? Was she not hugged as a child?

"I... I'll go get my coat."

Katrina shut the door and retreated back upstairs. Did Mycroft not trust her with the address of where she worked? If that was the case, should she really have taken this job in the first place? Unless he was testing her blind faith; it was a job for thr government after all. Then again... what could be so secret about the job that Mycroft couldn't tell her exactly where she was going and what she was doing?

 _You know exactly where you're going..._

"No I don't," Katrina said out loud to the familiar voice in her head. If she was to be working for the government, she really needed to stop responding to the Sherlock-like voice like that. "I have no idea..." she murmured.

Who was she kidding? Of course she knew. She just had a tendency to argue with herself about these things... stupid,yes, but she lived on her own. It was bound to happen.

Letting out a deep breath, Katrina took hold of her coat from the hook on the wall by the door and slowly pulled it on. She wasn't nervous. She was deliberating over going back down to Anthea because she was mulling over all the details she had so far about the job and trying to connect the dots.

When she eventually went to go get into the car, Katrina did not say a single word to Anthea. She was far too preoccupied with her muddled thoughts and trying to memorise the route they had taken to the plain looking white building somewhere near Westminster.

Now she had that feeling of dread in her belly, and she squirmed a little uncomfortably in her seat.

"Have you figured it out yet?" Anthea asked her.

"I figured it out back at Baker Street..."

Still staring out the window, Katrina felt only mildly relieved when the car pulled to a stop right next to Mycroft Holmes and tall, thin man who Katrina had never seen before in her life. He was balding, wore glasses and seemed quite pleased to be standing right next to Mycroft.

Katrina gulped and got out of the car, which promptly drove off, presumably to park somewhere.

"Miss Jenkins, I'm glad that your intelligence and managing to realise where you were going to be working did not frighten you out of actually coming today," Mycroft drawled.

"Wouldn't dream of backing out, Mr Holmes," she responded appropriately. Mycroft gave her a sly nod; in other company, addressing him as 'Mr Holmes' was better than actually knowing him personally. "I've been looking forward to this," she smiled and held out her hand for him to shake. Another nod. She was doing well at this.

"Was this the woman you were telling me about?" asked the man next to Mycroft. His voice was slightly accented, and Katrina eyed him almost cautiously but still with that fake sort of cheery demeanour.

"Yes, it was. Katrina Jenkins, I'd like you to meet Charles Augustus Magnussen," Mycroft introduced them and they shook hands. "He's been having a tour of the facilities. Of course there are some highly restricted areas that we could not grant him access to."

"I've heard your name before…" Katrina commented, before it clicked in her head. "Newspapers. You're kind of a big deal."

Magnussen grinned at her.

"You pay attention. I quite… like that." His voice was almost far too soft for Katrina's liking, now that she thought about it. "Mr Holmes here says you have quite extraordinary talents."

"He flatters me too much. Computers _are_ my thing, if I'm honest with you."

"So he has said."

"If you don't mind, Charles, but I'd quite like Katrina to get acquainted with the facilities now. I'll meet you again tomorrow in my office for lunch?"

"Wouldn't dream of missing it, Mycroft." His lips twitched upwards for a moment. "I'll be on my way, now. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jenkins."

Magnussen turned and stalked back off towards the building they were standing outside of. She was surprised he didn't have an armed guard surrounding him; he was one of the wealthiest businessmen in London, after all. She stared after him as he clasped his hands behind his back, whistling a charming tune; random and probably of his own making. She couldn't recognise it, so she made that assumption quite happily.

Katrina's gaze flickered to Mycroft, and he looked unnerved. He was hiding something from her; there was something not quite right about the meeting that had occurred between himself and Magnussen, and that worried her to an extent. She figured she shouldn't bring it up with him; he wouldn't appreciate that in the slightest.

"You alright, Mycroft?" It honestly felt better to use his first name, and her question didn't impose of something that wasn't her business.

He snapped out of his inner thoughts.

"I'm fine. Come."

As they made their way over to the building, Magnussen came out followed by a curvy woman about the same age as Katrina with neatly curled black hair and wearing an actual, proper suit. Not that Katrina was envious of the real life suit in the slightest.

The woman smiled at Katrina as they walked past each other, not that Katrina returned it. Maybe a little harsh, but anyone who was with Magnussen was hardly a friend to her. Mycroft was pretty much the only friend she had left at the moment, and if someone made Mycroft that uncomfortable then anyone associated with whoever did that was 'Not Good' in Katrina's eyes.

When they entered the building, Katrina noted how plain it looked, which bothered her. Then again – it wasn't going to be like it was in a film. The floor was marble and the receptionist sat at a rustic wooden desk. There were four sets of double doors – all open – that led off to various corridors. A cosy waiting area with plush red armchairs and sofas was by the main front door and a few people were standing around chatting, occasionally glancing over to Mycroft with the newcomer. An elevator was on the wall to the right of Katrina, and that appeared to require a pass of sorts to even be able to use.

"Stand against that wall, Miss Jenkins." Mycroft pointed to the bare patch of white wall by the reception desk. "Lucy, if you will."

Mildly confused, Katrina stood with her back to the wall and then the receptionist – who looked to be barely out of her teens, with blonde hair that was pinned back into a bun and heels that clicked against the marble floor – was in front of her with a rather impressive looking camera. A flash went off without warning and Katrina was momentarily stunned.

"I want that ID card processed for Miss Jenkins within the next half an hour," Mycroft told the girl. "All her details are on the system."

"Yes, sir," she replied and hurried back to her desk.

Mycroft led Katrina over to the elevator and scanned his card so that they could enter it. Once inside, Katrina spoke up again.

"I'm going to look like such a mug in that photo."

"Trust me when I say that you have an aesthetically pleasant resting face. Certainly better than some of the other people here, shall we say?" Mycroft was smirking, and Katrina couldn't help but be a little flattered by the fact he just implied she was naturally pretty. He probably didn't think that on a serious, emotional level, but in a more logical way. That she was lucky enough to be able to look nice in a surprise photo taken of her.

It was then that Katrina noticed the elevator was going down instead of up, but before she could ask anything else it dinged to a stop and the doors opened onto a floor that did not fit the theme of the reception.

The floor was itself was more metallic and grey in colour, made of tile. The walls were a gunmetal grey and there were twelve people all sitting at desks. The computers looked like the love child of Steve Jobs and Bill Gates, and Katrina was mildly impressed that the people here actually managed to merge that technology. There was a large platform television mounted on the wall directly opposite her, and two doors led off either side of it – presumably to offices and other questionable areas of the place.

"Welcome to MI6, Miss Jenkins."

* * *

About two hours later after an extensive, detail-filled tour, Katrina was shown to her very own office. A spacious office. She had her _own, spacious office._ A proper roomy desk, with a beautiful computer. A comfy leather spinny chair that she realised she could have a lot of fun on. Actually, she already was. Mycroft had said to her that he'd be back in about fifteen minutes with something for her to do and for the time being she was just spinning around on the chair. Childish, yes, but it definitely beat the chair she had to sit on at her last place of work.

Another added bonus was that everyone seemed really friendly too. She'd been introduced to three other people who worked with developing the software and hardware for the Service, but Katrina was going to primarily be software. One of them had whispered quietly in Katrina's ear that she was going to be put on some pretty damn important assignments pretty soon, so she had to be on top of her game with coding.

Mycroft had told him off for trying to scare her off, even though he knew it was the truth. He had hired her for a reason, after all.

There was a knock on the door and Katrina ceased in her spinning.

"Come in," she said, finding it odd. Usually people would just barge in.

The door was opened and Mycroft walked in followed by two people wheeling a computer on a trolley.

"Fix it," was all Mycroft said before he and the others left, shutting the door behind them.

Katrina had a funny feeling that this was some sort of test.

Nevertheless, she dragged the trolley to her desk and plugged in everything. She switched it on. It worked. It was most likely not a hardware problem then. Katrina realised she hadn't been given her log in yet but managed to let herself in as a guest user.

 _Guest user? That couldn't be right..._

Standing up, Katrina exit her office and took a left, making her way down the corridor and towards the main floor (like the one she had stepped out onto from the elevator, but this was much larger) and went to approach Mycroft. He was talking to the other tech developers but Katrina didn't really care about that at the moment.

"It wasn't broken. You could log in as a guest user. This was a test, wasn't it?"

She folded her arms and waited for a response. He turned to face her, and her colleagues were grinning behind him.

"How long did that take, Mr Corner?"

"Under four minutes, sir," the man standing to the left of Mycroft said. He was tall, with slicked back ginger hair and a slim, bony face. He was holding a stop watch in his hand. The other male tech developer was seething and he stormed off, causing Corner and the other (a woman) to giggle.

"You beat Smith's record," she said.

"How long was that?" Katrina asked her.

"About ten minutes. Nobody's ever beaten him before."

"Brilliant."

"I think you're going to fit in quite well here, Katrina," Mycroft told her.

She really couldn't keep the smile off her face.

This was probably the happiest she had been in a long while.

* * *

 **Katrina in a spinny chair is my life okay.**

 **Also I wanted to keep the description of MI6 vague... because otherwise it would have become overused James Bond stuff, tbh. And yes, Magnussen has already made an appearance! Why? You're not going to find out for ages, yay!**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	3. Actual Work

Katrina was honestly surprised at how well she had managed to fit into working for the government, considering that she wasn't exactly a fan. Admittedly, the MI6 section of the government was pretty cool, and it gave her something to look forward to doing during the week. It wasn't a regular nine to five job, after all.

Even her doctor had managed to picked up a change in Katrina; not that she was going to ease the woman off of her medication any time soon, but there was a promise that that would happen. Mrs Hudson seemed a lot happier now that Katrina was actually doing something she enjoyed; for some reason, Mrs Hudson just seemed to _know_ things. Then again, she was a wise woman.

Smith – Daniel Smith, as Katrina had come to learn – most definitely did not like her. Before, he had been the youngest, fastest, and best at his job, but now he was just the youngest. Corner – Samuel Corner – was much friendlier than Daniel, despite the fact he could be a bit of a grumpy sod. He wasn't mean to anyone, he just didn't talk to much. Finally there was Patricia Davies, who was a lot bubblier than Katrina had anticipated, and she felt she had to mentally prepare herself constantly if she ever had to have a conversation with the woman. Patricia was lovely, just a tad over the top.

Despite the fact she was certainly feeling better about life, Katrina often found herself gravitating more and more towards the graveyard. Perhaps it was because she felt a weird need to update Sherlock on her life; she knew for a fact that the real life Sherlock Holmes probably wouldn't even care. Well, he might do. He might sit there and pretend he wasn't listening, but then the next day he'd ask a random question in regards to something that Katrina had said the night before. That had been a way to throw her off balance, that was for sure.

It was just after sunset on a Friday after Katrina had finished work that she found herself sitting there in the freezing weather of late January just mumbling about god knows what to the sleek, marble headstone. It seemed disrespectful to do so, but she was leaning back against it; her argument was that she had known Sherlock personally, and he'd probably rather her do that than sit with nothing to lean on. Katrina reckoned it was something about making sure she was well enough to stand up straight and not slouch, because Mycroft would get iffy with her. She didn't know; it was just excuses.

"I don't know if I've mentioned the weirdness of working with Mycroft… I have no idea if you'd be proud of me for being able to be in the same area as him for prolonged amounts of time, or if you'd be annoyed with me for working with him. Probably both. It's weird, but it's nice to have someone else familiar around, you know?" she sighed, toying with the hem of her coat.

"I kind of fucked up with John, too. We don't talk anymore. It was bad… everything was bad… it was just a bad idea… so, so bad… I should probably think of a synonym for bad now, right?" Nervous laughter escaped from Katrina's lips and became wispy little clouds in the air. "Oh! Mrs Hudson's pretty glad I'm living at Baker Street again, did I tell you that? We always have tea together on weekends, it's quite lovely..."

She shifted position so that she was kneeling and facing the headstone now.

"I miss you. I'm not going to stop doing that. Don't get angry with me, it's just how life works. I'm still getting on with life – as if my rambles aren't proof enough – but I can still miss you at the same time, okay? Good."

"How touching," came a voice from behind Katrina. She didn't jump, but she turned pretty sharply to see a woman – perhaps the most beautiful woman she had ever seen – step out from behind the tree. She was tall, slim, dressed in black, and was clearly a little anxious about being seen.

"Thank you... I guess..." Katrina frowned. "Who are you?"

"A friend of his." The woman sauntered over with her hands in her coat pockets. "He saved my life."

"He saved mine too." Katrina stood up and dusted herself off. "And then right after, he jumped off the top of a building."

"Ah, so you're the infamous Katrina Jenkins." She smirked. "I've been curious about you; I was _dying_ to meet you."

Katrina eyed the stranger. "The way you say that makes me think you _actually_ nearly died in trying to get here."

"You'd be correct in having that train of thought, Miss Jenkins."

"Katrina. It's _Katrina._ Please." Honestly, she'd had enough of the whole 'Miss Jenkins' formality for a lifetime. "Who are you?"

The woman was quiet for a moment, thinking things over, and in that moment Katrina knew that whatever name she was about to receive was not her real name in the slightest.

"Rena," she finally said. "You can call me Rena."

"That's not your real name." The corners of Katrina's lips twitched upwards in amusement.

There was something alluring about this woman, and she wanted to find out what it was; she was the curious one, now. The main thing Katrina noticed about her was her natural beauty; she was just simply radiant, and it was unfair. She found her gaze occasionally dropping to the woman's lips too. Hopefully she wouldn't notice.

"I might tell you my real name one day, but that's only if you really want to know." She pulled a battered wallet out of her coat pocket, and fished out a little piece of card from it, handing it to Katrina. "My number. If you find you want to satisfy your curiosity, then call me before Valentine's Day. That's when I'm out of here. I came to find you and see what you were all about, and finally pay my respects to Mr Holmes. I think he'd be satisfied enough with me talking to you, won't he?"

She threw Katrina a wink, nodded her head towards the marble slab, turned on her heel and went on her way.

Katrina was left standing bemused and staring down at the mobile phone number that she now held.

She would have to keep that safe, that was for sure.

* * *

"Miss Jenkins, you're getting distracted again."

"Sorry, Mycroft."

"If you're not up to this task for Charles Magnussen, I completely understand–"

"No, no, it's not that. The task is fine, it's just… something else."

Once a week, Katrina and Mycroft would have their own private meeting for about an hour, and usually he would give her a small job to do as well as have a general chat. They'd drink tea and it didn't feel like they were at work at all.

Katrina leaned back in her chair and watched as Mycroft refilled her cup with the beverage, adding half a teaspoon of sugar from the small pot, and then pouring in some milk from the tiny jug. He then pushed the cup and saucer back towards her.

"Thank you." She reached out for it and raised it to her lips, taking a sip. Good thing that Mycroft had noticed how she made her tea, otherwise that would have been awkward. She set the cup back down on the table, and tried her best to ignore the fact that Mycroft was attempting to bore a hole into her soul with his own two eyes.

"What's on your mind, Katrina?" he asked, softly.

"I met a woman."

His eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline. "Naturally. Carry on."

"She didn't tell me her real name. All she did was give me her mobile number. I have two weeks until she leaves."

"Where did she come from?"

"No idea… my god, she was beautiful."

Mycroft let out a deep sigh.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said. "You and your love of aesthetics sometimes unnerves me, but then I remember you're not my brother or Anthea."

"Fair enough… do you think I should meet up with her again? Find out her real name?"

"Katrina," Mycroft began, "In all honesty, is finding out her real name the _only_ thing you want to do?"

She looked at Mycroft and noticed some sort of mischievous glint in his eyes; she nearly burst out laughing at that.

"Be my wingman?" she then asked him. A wry smile appeared on his face and he simply shook his head.

"My suggestion is you phone her later on, and right now we can get back to what we had been previously talking about."

"Of course. Sorry, Mycroft." Katrina sat up straight and tried to look more attentive to what he had been saying before. The pair of them knew that her trying wasn't exactly the best attempt, but it would have to do for now.

"Magnussen wants a security system designed and tested out. _Thoroughly._ He wants reports, and many of them. If he finds a single fault in the final product, it's not just your head he'll be after." There was something in Mycroft's voice that worried Katrina, and _that_ itself was enough to make her pay proper attention to him.

"What's wrong with what he's got now?" she asked quietly.

"It's not good enough, according to him."

"Mycroft, is this a test?"

He was silent for a moment.

"Yes. Something like that."

"So I can't get the others to help out like usual?"

"I'm afraid not."

Katrina hummed in disbelief. Was there something going on here that she didn't know about? Most definitely. It was obvious she was never going to find out what that was, but she didn't exactly want to be a part of it. Except that in some way, she was. Mycroft never looked comfortable when talking about Magnussen, and she was beginning to understand why.

She'd only ever met the man once, but he had been… creepy, for want of a better word. He was mysterious, but not in a good way, and that honestly frightened her. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, a thoughtful look now on her face; it couldn't be that hard, could it?

"Exactly what does he want out of it?"

"Let me put it this way: create something that'll prevent even Sherlock Holmes from breaking in."

"That's quite the challenge." Katrina's brow furrowed, and her fingers started drumming on her thigh.

"Yes," Mycroft replied, his voice sounding a little far away, "But I think you're up to it. If you weren't, you would be sitting there already beginning to think about how you'd go about this."

The drumming stopped.

"How did you know?"

The drumming started again.

"I've noticed that over the past few weeks – before you start any task – you keep doing _that_ annoying thing." Mycroft pointed at her fingers. "No wonder Smith hates you."

"Oh, I think he hates me for different reasons," she muttered bitterly.

"Katrina?"

"Yes?"

"For the love of all that is good and proper, I beg you, do _not_ attempt to seduce Smith."

She pulled a face. "Why the _fuck_ would I do that?"

"You've got a track record."

"Maybe we should be having this conversation _outside_ of work time."

"Perhaps you're right. I apologise for bringing it up now."

"Apology accepted." Katrina rose from her seat and straightened out her skirt. "I suppose I better get started then. How long have I got?"

"A month."

"That is most definitely a challenge."

Those were Katrina's last words to Mycroft before she left his office.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

 **Hello, sorry for the lack of update, uni has been kicking my butt a little bit! Glad to get the ball rolling on this again.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	4. Rena

Late nights had once again become part of Katrina's routine.

It was what made her begin to regret taking on the side task for Magnussen.

She'd be working longer than the usual nine hour day, and work something like fifteen hours; it became common for her to roll back into 221B around the one thirty in the morning mark. Then she'd have to be up at seven and start her whole day again. At least she was provided with dinner while working, otherwise that would have been a disaster. Also overtime pay. Mycroft was pretty generous with that.

Except her security system for Magnussen hadn't been the only thing on her mind either. Katrina had taken to actively hiding her phone during work hours so she wasn't tempted to phone up Rena, or whoever that woman was really called. There had been one occasion during that two weeks where she had decided to leave her phone at home, but that only served to annoy Mycroft; it was his easiest way of contacting her quickly without having to send a runner to her.

So she would often hide it somewhere in her office; that way she could hear it ring if Mycroft needed her.

The two weeks until Rena left were running out quickly, so on the last Friday before Katrina knew she would leave, she finally caved and sent a text. That led to her staring at her phone in the middle of her desk for the next two hours, prompting Mycroft to come to her after she did not respond to his text, call, or runner.

"What have you done?" he asked her, folding his arms as he stood in the centre of her office.

"I text Rena," she whispered in response, shocked with herself still. Mycroft sighed.

"Has she replied?"

"No."

"Are you going to get on with your work?"

"No."

"Will you get on with your work when she _has_ replied?"

"Yes."

"Normally I wouldn't make an exception, Katrina, except perhaps you've been through too much in the past year. You're completely on the opposite end of the spectrum from myself in regards to matters of the heart, so I can understand that it is important to you to find something good for yourself."

Katrina slowly looked up at Mycroft to find he wasn't being sarcastic in the slightest; his words were sincere, as was the look on his face. He gave her a curt nod.

"I'll leave you to it."

Then he left her to her on her own again.

Katrina relaxed in her chair. It was weird enough having her former… _something's_ brother not only be her boss, but also be sympathetic towards her about this. The world had become strange since that day at St Bart's, but at least now it was easier to live in. At least Mycroft could be a decent person; he was more decent to her now than he had ever been since meeting her for the first time.

She snapped out of her thoughts when her phone buzzed. She picked it up and read the text.

 _I can meet tomorrow.  
_ _Toi and Moi in Soho, midday.  
_ _-R x_

Katrina nearly dropped her phone in excitement, except she knew she had to play it calm when actually replying. She wasn't sure why she was so excited – was it her curiosity? Or was there something else she wanted from Rena too? Possibly, yes, because Katrina had admitted to Mycroft that Rena had been beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact.

 _I'll be there.  
_ _-KJ._

So that was a thing that was going to happen, now. She'd tell Mycroft about it on Monday. For now, she needed to get back to work.

Katrina had been surprised with what she had come up with. She'd been given blueprints with the building where Magnussen worked, saw that there was an elevator that led straight up to his office and then went from there. All it was was a case of having a card reader by that particular elevator, and only people with the right level of access could get in.

It was so simple, so why did Magnussen want _her_ to do it? Despite her working late on it (reports galore, hence the regret), it was child's play to Katrina. She'd rather hack Baskerville again. But no, here she was designing a way for him to prevent people from breaking into his office. All she needed now was to have a similar system go around the entire building and then she would be done. Not hard. Really, really, not hard at all. Just time consuming so she could get it more than perfect.

Lucky for her, she didn't have to come into work tomorrow. Thank god it was Saturday.

Katrina didn't receive a text back from Rena but she was fine with that. She could get on now that she knew for sure that she was meeting the woman tomorrow.

Time seemed to pass a little quicker that Friday night, and when she finally returned home at one thirty in the morning, Katrina managed to sleep easier.

She took her time getting ready that Saturday morning, putting a tiny bit more effort into her appearance, yet she still went with her usual jeans and jumper outfit. It was the weekend, and she was glad to finally get out of a pencil skirt.

She took the tube from Baker Street to Oxford Circus and made the short walk down the busy street and took a right onto Berwick Street, where about halfway she found the cafe. Katrina was early, yes, but that was fine. She ordered herself a latte (which had stars dusted on top of the foam) and sat down at one of the tables. It was a small place, but it was busy enough that if conversation took an odd turn, nobody would hear them.

She had her back to the door, so was surprised when Rena rolled in and sat down opposite her with a coffee.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to text," she said, taking a demure sip of her coffee and leaving a bright red lip stain behind on the mug.

"Well, I wasn't sure what I wanted, then I decided, and here we are." Katrina gave a wry smile, toying with her cup.

"Alright. What do you want?" Rena quirked an eyebrow, and Katrina felt her cheeks go a little pink.

"Who are you?"

"A friend."

"You said that at the graveyard and I don't _really_ believe that. You had to think about what your name was then, remember? You said you might tell me what your real name was if I really wanted to know. And I do. That's what I want. I want the truth, because I had to live a lie for seven months and it cost me a friend. I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to pretend anymore."

Despite the cafe being busy at lunch hour, Katrina still kept her voice relatively quiet, although she more or less spat her speech at Rena. Except it didn't anger the other woman – she merely smirked; looked impressed. It's as if she had been expecting that response.

"I'll tell you my name later," she finally said. "Not here. _People_ could be listening."

The way she said "people" made Katrina wonder even more, but for the time being she had some of her latte.

"Criminal."

"Not quite." Rena shrugged. "Well – I was, but not anymore. I'm meant to be dead. According to official records, I was beheaded by extremists over a year ago."

"Sherlock saved you from that." It clicked together in Katrina's head. "And now you're on the run. You don't want to risk being caught."

"Which is why I can't stay in one place for too long."

"I wouldn't be able to do that – I _couldn't_ do that..." she mumbled. No matter how hard she tried to solve it, the mystery surrounding Rena only seemed to thicken. Then again, she wasn't a detective. She'd find out eventually, and that would be because Rena would tell her. That was easy enough to figure out.

"You're too soft for that."

Katrina could feel her nostrils flare, and her hand balled up into a fist on the table. She didn't want to do anything brash – not in public, at least. Doing anything stupid would be a massive inconvenience to Rena, who was currently trying to keep a low profile, and then to Katrina herself, because she wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything.

"I am anything _but_ soft," Katrina told Rena in a low voice. The woman didn't even seem worried. She knew nothing about Katrina. They knew nothing about each other – so Katrina trying to scare her in this situation was entirely useless. "If you knew what had happened to me, what I've been through, then you would know I'm not soft in the slightest."

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Rena cocked her head to the side in a way that was annoyingly innocent and curious.

"No. Today is about you. You can find out for yourself what happened when you leave London." She downed the rest of her drink. "You got anywhere you're staying right now? We're not going back to Baker Street."

"As long as you don't mind a twenty minute tube journey, then yes. I do."

Rena left her half finished coffee on the table and left the cafe swiftly. Katrina could only stare at the mug with the red lipstick on it, and she quickly took a photo before heading out after the woman. She was given a bemused look from her – she had noticed Katrina taking the photo. The colour in Katrina's cheeks went more pink than the previous occasion, and they set off back towards Oxford Circus.

The silence that settled between them was… unusual. Not uncomfortable, simply unusual. On the tube itself, Rena pulled out her phone and started doing god knows what on it – they were underground, there was no signal, so Katrina had no idea what she could possibly be doing; however, it gave her an excuse to stare at Rena while she wasn't looking.

The only downside was realising how perfectly sculpted Rena's cheekbones were; it only served to remind Katrina of Sherlock, but the more she pushed the thought of him away, the more attractive the woman became. At one point, Rena caught Katrina staring but she managed to keep her cool and simply smiled. Eventually Rena pocketed the phone and soon they were at Pont Street and getting off the tube and out into the open air once more.

Katrina nearly started walking off in the wrong direction and Rena had to take hold of her hand and pretty much lead her to where they were going.

"I'm pretty certain that once you realise where we're going, you'll know my name."

"O… kay..." Katrina didn't bother keeping the confusion out of her voice, but was happy to let Rena lead her wherever. She didn't even care at this point; she'd follow her anywhere if she had to.

Katrina then had to mentally slap herself for getting in too deep too soon.

"I've never been to this part of London before," she told Rena.

"Really? Hmm. That's odd. I thought you might have done. I'm surprised you don't even recognise it."

They rounded a corner and were on a street with large, white houses, all of which had pillars by the doorway. In all her life, Katrina had never been somewhere so… upmarket. It made her wonder how Rena could even afford to be here if she was in hiding, but then–

"Wait." Katrina tore her hand from Rena's and stopped short. "We're in… I know this place. I've never been here, but I know it."

"Why do you know it?" Rena folded her arms and stepped back from Katrina.

"John's blog."

"Where are we then, dear?"

"Belgravia."

"And who am I?"

"Irene Adler."

"Are you scared?"

"No. Why should I be scared?"

"I brought the nation to it's knees." Irene then wandered off towards one of the houses, and crouched down in front of the door and searched for a key under the door mat. She stood and unlocked it. "Are you coming?"

Katrina, still in some mild shock about who she was with right now, had to take a moment to jolt out of her thoughts before running to catch up with Irene. The woman was pleased to see she hadn't decided to run off, and then shut and locked the door as soon as Katrina was safely inside.

"I want to show you something."

Irene began to make her way up the stairs and Katrina followed. They took a right at the top and Irene led her down to a bedroom.

"Bit forward," Katrina joked. When Irene threw her an unimpressed look, she turned more red than pink and sat down on the bed, watching as the other woman went over to a cupboard and pulled the doors open wide.

"I'm surprised everything's still here after so long… Have a look."

Slipping out of her coat, Katrina walked up to the doors and her jaw nearly dropped when seeing it was a walk in wardrobe, with some of the most expensive dresses she had ever seen.

"Take your pick. I'm not going to be wearing them any time soon."

"Darling, neither will I..." Katrina slowly made her way through the wardrobe, her hands often brushing against the material of all the clothes in there. Irene used to live a life of extravagance, so it must have hurt to leave all that behind.

"Am I darling now?"

Katrina jumped a little when Irene spoke, not noticing that she had crept up behind her and was now very close to her. She could feel her breath in her ear; warm, and her lips were touching her ear lobe the tiniest amount.

"I'm not really interested in the clothes right now."

Katrina spun round so that her face was centimetres from Irene's. The heat was building up in the wardrobe, and it was lucky that they were the same height – it made it that much easier for Katrina to gently press her lips against Irene's. Only for a second, just to test the waters.

"Bit forward," Irene remarked.

"You were hoping for this."

"So were you."

"Well, at least we're on the same page with this."

Irene let out a little laugh, and took Katrina by the hand once more, leading her back to the bedroom.

"Curiosity satisfied?"

"Maybe ask me that question in a couple hours. I might have an answer for you then."

"Is that an invitation? Because I think I'd know what you'd like..." At that point, Irene pushed Katrina backwards onto the bed.

"Try me."

Irene smirked.

"Oh believe me, I intend to..."

* * *

A few hours and several orgasms later, the two women lay quite cosy in bed together. Katrina was lying on her front, and Irene on her side, lazily stroking Katrina's back. There were some red marks on the former's back that were clearly not from nails or hands or anything that was human, and Irene would press little kisses to those marks.

Katrina appreciated that, despite the fact she was so worn out she could have fallen asleep right there and then. She hummed in contentment, her thoughts hazy and happy and she felt that there was nothing in the world that she could worry about. She could forget her grief for a little bit and not have to carry that around with her.

"Usually, I prefer being the dominatrix..." Katrina murmured sleepily. "But that was good. Better than good. Absolutely… thoroughly enjoyable."

"I told you I knew what you liked." Irene got out of bed and went to put on a robe. She sat at the dressing table, undoing the tight bun her hair had been in and began to fix it to be neater. "Honestly it's a shame I have to leave the country in a few days."

"It is..." Katrina rolled over and sat up. "Will I ever see you again?"

"Are you free after work this week?"

"Overtime."

"Ah. Well, I hope to see you again anyway." Irene's expression darkened a moment. "Tell me, Katrina… do you still love him?"

Her grief seemed to come back a smidgen.

"Yes," Katrina said after a moment or two. "I can't help myself, really."

"That's fair."

"If I weren't so in love now, I think I could love you."

"You _think_?" She seemed offended, and Katrina quickly worked to dig herself out of that hole.

"It's been a while since I've been with a woman… no… well, you're the first woman I've actually had sex with. I got a bit handsy with some girls at university but… no… never been with a woman. If anything, I told myself that liking girls was a problem to deal with another day. I forgot about it for over a decade," Katrina laughed. "So yeah, I could love you, if I weren't in love with someone else and I actually had things with myself figured out."

"Love is strange, but I could certainly love you. I think I did for a few hours, but I don't trust myself to get involved that deeply with someone..."

There was a sadness to Irene's voice, that had Katrina wrapping the bed sheet around herself and getting up so she could give the other woman some comfort. She put an arm around her, and kissed the top of her head.

"And you can't do that while you're hiding from the world."

"Yes… it's… it's painful, sometimes. I know I was a dominatrix before all this, but now I just want to settle in one place with someone. I want to have a home. I don't really have that anymore."

"Well, if you ever happen to pop back to London, you've got a home with me," Katrina said. "As for hiding from the world… I'll see what I can do about that. I work for the government. Mycroft is my boss. I can try."

Irene patted her on the arm and snorted. "As if Mr Holmes would want to clear my name and proclaim me alive."

"Ah yeah… that's a point..." Katrina let go of Irene and straightened up. "Give me a few years and you'll be good. I promise."

Irene turned to look at Katrina, not quite believing what she was saying. "Really now?"

"I promise. Cross my heart." Katrina made the appropriate hand motion over her heart. "Good enough for you?"

"I suppose so. The amount of faith you have for a person you don't even know is incredible. Well, I guess you know some things about me..." Irene turned back to the mirror and carried on fixing her hair, while Katrina plonked herself on the edge of the bed. "Why would you want to clear my name?"

"There's something about you I like. I mean… I just confessed that I could love you. You're beautiful and you terrify me – in a good way. You fit into the category that is 'my type.' What else do you want me to say? You gave a complete stranger your phone number in the hopes that they would be curious enough to text it or phone it. And _you_ just confessed you want to have a home. So why _wouldn't_ I want to clear your name?"

Once Irene was done with her hair, she swiveled round on the chair. It was exactly the same as it had been a few hours previously. "I can't tell if you're being naive or not."

"You're lonely. So am I. Neither of us would have done this if we weren't. Today was an honest day, and I felt a bit more free. Don't tell me you don't feel the same." Katrina folded her arms like an impatient teacher and waited for an answer.

"I can't. You're right." Irene began fiddling with the tie of her robe. "Funny that – two complete strangers finding something in common."

"We weren't complete strangers though… how did you know my name? You knew my name when we met at the graveyard."

"The blog. Don't look so concerned. I've not been following you, I swear." The sincerity in Irene's voice was enough for Katrina to believe her. "Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have time for that. Meeting you at the graveyard last week was a lovely coincidence… Darling, why do you have to work overtime?"

"Do you know who Charles Augustus Magnussen is?" Katrina rolled her eyes. "Because if you do, that's the only explanation I'm giving you. Well, that, and the fact I'm good with coding and programming. Other than that, everything I do is highly classified."

"Be careful around him."

Katrina looked confused. "Why?"

"Serial blackmailer. Don't let yourself get roped in too deep. Do the job that he has for you – if it's innocent enough to use whatever programming skills you have, then fine – just don't… don't let him get to you..." Irene was desperate, and it worried Katrina that she had even accepted the task from him in the first place. Not that she had much say in the matter anyway. Even Mycroft had been mildly uncomfortable about getting her to do this – he was uncomfortable around Magnussen full stop.

"I won't. I'll be fine. I've been through much worse."

Irene was thoughtful. "Tell me what happened."

Katrina let out a long breath. "I would, but it still feels… fresh. I'm able to forget about pretty easily, but I can't… not now. I'm still sort of working back towards normalcy. Can you please understand that?"

"Of course."

Irene had been out of the loop. She knew Moriarty was dead, she knew that Sherlock had faked his death, but she didn't know what Katrina had to do with all of that – all she knew was that Katrina was involved in some way. She eyed her clothes on the floor for a moment, and went to get her phone from the pocket. She had a text.

 _Still with her?  
_ – _SH_

 _Yes.  
_ – _I x_

 _I'm in Italy, by the way. Venice.  
_ – _SH_

 _Funny, I was heading that way anyway.  
_ – _I x_

 _How long you going to be here for?  
_ – _SH_

 _Two weeks maximum. I have to be in China by March.  
_ – _I x_

 _I can deal with two weeks of you.  
_ – _SH_

 _Charming.  
_ – _I_

"Anything important?" Katrina asked her.

"Not particularly," Irene lied, putting her phone back into her coat pocket on the floor. "Just sorting out living arrangements for the next couple of weeks."

"Good luck, by the way."

Irene was silent for a few seconds. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I figured you might need it… I mean, you've done pretty well without it so far, but it's always nice to have. I could do with some."

"Hmm. No you don't."

"Thanks… but Irene… will I ever see you again?"

Irene stared at Katrina for a moment before coming over to take hold of her hands. "I promise you will. Even if it's a decade into the future, you _will_ see me again. I promise you that, okay?"

"Okay."

They smiled at each other, before deciding it was high time to lose themselves in each other once more.

* * *

"I'm sorry, _who?_ "

"Irene Adler."

"She's dead."

"Well… she's really not, but she _might_ have died a bit after that last orgasm I gave her."

Mycroft choked on his tea.

"Other than that, she' perfectly fine and dandy, with her head firmly attached to her body." Katrina picked up a biscuit and began nibbling on it.

"Is she still in the country?"

"She leaves on Valentine's Day."

"So in three days she'll be gone."

"Yep."

"You slept with her."

"Yep."

"I'm not entirely sure how to react to this. She's meant to be dead."

"I'm aware of that. But she's fine." Katrina paused for a second. "Don't go after her, Mycroft. You won't find her."

"I'm aware of that," he repeated her statement dryly. "This is to be kept between us, you understand?"

"Mycroft… I know. Even before I found out who she really was, I didn't want to take her back to Baker Street anyway, so Mrs Hudson has no clue."

"Good. Now get back to work while I process this information." Mycroft had his head in his hands, and as soon as he knew Katrina had left his office, he let out a very loud groan.

This was not a good Monday.

* * *

 **Yes. Katrina/Irene is my guilty pleasure and I love them so much I cannot.**

 **Also we'll get Sherlock in the next chapter. It's been a while since I actually wrote him as a character!**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	5. Italy

If only he had come here during the summer months – it would have been much more enjoyable. Although Sherlock had to admit that winter in Italy was still far better than winter in England. It was cold, yes, but it was a type of cold that was more bearable than the humid, windy cold that England often had.

For the first time in eight months, he had managed to catch himself a break. The world was quiet, and he hadn't had any massive dramas since he had to go back to England and essentially help out Mycroft; even though an agent went down, Sherlock had made sure that the person at fault was properly dealt with. He didn't think he'd have to shoot a gun at any stage, but it had been necessary at the time. He didn't know how much longer he'd be hunting Moriarty's network, but he was getting there at a moderate pace.

As of right now, he was sitting in an armchair in his quite small apartment, facing the window and watching as the people of Venice went about their day. He often found himself sitting there; everyone was close enough to watch, but far away enough that he would find himself making observations about their petty lives. It was taxing, more often than not. It was why he preferred to avoid people altogether nowadays.

Except he was awaiting a visitor.

Sherlock had even taken the effort to clean himself up a little bit, and don his usual suit that seemed like it had been from a lifetime ago. He didn't bother with cutting his hair though. He had shaved, yes, but the curly hair itself wasn't that much longer than what it had been.

He checked the time on his phone – it was coming up to about three o'clock. Irene should be there soon. It had been a while since he had last seen her, so this next meeting was going to be interesting, to say the least.

Sure enough, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock jumped up, flattened out his suit and went to go let in his guest. Irene barely even said hello to him as she walked inside, not that he was really expecting that. She was only going to be there for a short amount of time, so she wasn't exactly going to disrupt whatever he was doing on a long term basis. Short term basis, yes, but that Sherlock could deal with. He closed the door and locked it.

"How was the journey?" He might as well start off with a common courtesy.

"Could have been better. Then again, what do you expect when you're trying to hide? Economy class and a man snoring next to you for four hours." She dumped her bag on the nearby table. "This is cosy."

"I'll sleep on the sofa. You can take the bed."

"We not going to share?" Irene mock pouted at Sherlock, and let out a "hmmph" sound. She rolled her eyes at him. "Relax, I'm joking. I've had little to no interest in you for a long time."

"That's good to know..." Sherlock settled himself in the armchair again. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "There's a chance I'm going to be busy while you're here, so you're going to have to entertain yourself somehow. I don't have the time to babysit you."

"Still dismantling the network?" Irene went and collapsed onto the sofa.

"Obviously… except everything's a bit quiet for the time being. I'm just… waiting..." Sherlock steepled his fingers together underneath his chin, breathing deeply.

"Waiting for what, exactly?"

"Drama." The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched up for a brief moment, and then he remembered what he had wanted to talk to Irene about; he fell serious again. "How's our mutual friend?"

"I'm beginning to regret ever letting you know I ran into her. She's fine. Lonely and grieving, but she's doing well."

Sherlock turned to face her, and he eyed her curiously.

"You slept with her."

Once again, Irene rolled her eyes.

"We both wanted it. We were both lonely. You know, I could love her if I wanted to."

"Except you're not settled, so you can't. What did she think of that?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "You are _far_ too interested in her. In any case, she was the one who said she could love _me_ , first."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, and Irene noticed it.

"Did I touch a nerve?"

"Something like that. Why the 'could?'"

"Work it out for yourself, Mr Holmes..." Irene spotted a magazine on the table and picked it up, flicking through it lazily and disinterested. "You're a clever man. Oh, and I know jealousy when I see it. Would you mind unclenching your jaw? It's rather unnerving."

Feeling awkward, Sherlock did exactly that and resumed to staring out the window, just so he didn't give anything away to Irene again.

"You never mentioned she worked for Mycroft," Irene added.

"I'm sorry, excuse me?"

Now, he hadn't been expecting _that._ Sherlock would occasionally touch base with Mycroft, but never did he think that Katrina would finally take his brother up on the offer. Although, that would explain why she was faring better than when she had been with John.

"She does programming."

"For the government?"

"It would seem so."

"She's changed a bit," Sherlock remarked. Not that it was a bad thing that she had changed, because it was good that she was doing something that she enjoyed. If anything, he felt a little bit of pride on Katrina's behalf.

"Except Magnussen has asked her to do something for him. And she's doing it."

"Ah. That could potentially be problematic."

"Quite. I did warn her about what he's like but I think she'll be alright, as long as she _only_ does that one thing for him."

"If not, she'll be in a bit of trouble; I know. I always kept up to date with the world, and I'm still in contact with my brother. He's told me about Magnussen."

"I'm surprised he didn't tell you about Katrina."

"He didn't want me getting distracted, thank you very much," Sherlock snapped, his hands now gripping the armchair to the point that his knuckles were turning white.

"You love her."

"I don't."

"But you're reacting in a way that would suggest–"

"Do you want to stay here for two weeks or would you like to find someplace else?" Sherlock asked her in a dangerously low voice.

"So he didn't want you getting distracted?" Irene brought the conversation back to what it had originally been about.

"Of course not. I'm on a mission. You count as a distraction as well, but I know you have nowhere to go – so here you are. Make yourself at home while you can." Oh, how Irene really hadn't missed the cold, calculating voice of Sherlock Holmes, when she really thought about it. He had made it very clear that the conversation was over, so Irene took to going to the bedroom and having a nap. There wasn't exactly much else she wanted to do right now, and she was tired.

As soon as there was silence in the apartment, Sherlock's mind began racing about any potential threat that Italy could come under. He wondered if there was anything more mundane that he could solve; a little side thing, something that would keep him occupied while the network was quiet.

It didn't seem like he would going to get it from just sitting in the armchair, however he had only been in Italy for a week at best and this was his first day doing nothing. Normally he would have detested the thought of doing nothing, but Sherlock had finally adjusted himself to a new life. There would be days where there was more going on than there would be in London, and also days where he would be stagnant.

He was beginning to welcome stagnant days more readily. Perhaps it was a side effect from being on the run and in hiding and pretending to be dead – gosh, life was more difficult now, wasn't it? He had to make his own cups of tea in the morning (they would just _be_ there when he got out of bed) – except he would only do that if he had _time_ to make a cup of tea. Today he had found time. Today was a good day, even though he'd had to share it with Irene Adler. She would stay out of his way though, that he could count on.

Then his phone buzzed with some random news update, and a smile cracked out on his face.

Sherlock was gone from the apartment in less than ten seconds.

* * *

Spending two weeks with Irene Adler actually had its uses.

There was one night where he came back to the apartment battered, bruised and bleeding, and in need of a bit of assistance. Normally, Sherlock would have stitched himself up but while he had another person there with him, there was no point in wasting the opportunity to not have to put himself back together.

For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to feel that pain. He allowed himself to feel the blood oozing out of his body, the stinging of the deep cut that had been placed in his side, the sharpness of the needle as it punctured his skin, and the tugging of the thread as it was pulled through him.

The last time he had been in this much agony – the last time he had _let_ himself be in this much agony – was when he had been poisoned that one time he went out to dinner with Katrina.

 _Katrina…_

As soon as he thought her name, he automatically retreated into his mind palace.

 _221B Baker Street. London. Home. Not exactly his usual mind palace setting, but it would have to do for now._

 _He was settled in the blue armchair, as ever, but he was still bleeding. Obviously._

" _My advice would be to block it out," said Katrina's voice from the kitchen. She then walked into view with a cup of tea in her hands. "I know it hurts, but you've been through worse. I know you want to feel it, but don't let it consume you like this."_

" _I'm not."_

" _Yet you're here talking to me." Katrina sat down opposite him in the red armchair. "You're an idiot."_

" _So are you."_

" _You're more of one – stop thinking about me, it's only going to make things worse. You_ know _you can't come back here, not for a long time."_

 _Sherlock gritted his teeth – the pain was getting worse, not better. What the hell was Irene doing to him back in the real world? Katrina was right, why_ had _he let consume him?_

" _I know I can't."_

" _Then get up off your arse, stop thinking about me, and go sort out the world." Katrina then sipped on her tea. "I'll still be here in the back of your mind, but don't venture here too often."_

"Sherlock..." came Irene's voice from the real world.

" _Must I go back right now?" he groaned._

" _You really should. She's clearly worried."_

" _I don't care about her."_

" _Maybe you should. She cares enough about you to stitch you back together again."_

" _She's doing an awful job of it," Sherlock scoffed. "It hurts more, now."_

" _That's because you're slumped over in the chair mumbling to yourself."_

 _He frowned. She was good sometimes, even in his own mind. It had been so long since he'd last seen Katrina, Sherlock was surprised that he was even able to retain an accurate image of her face and personality. Then again, this was_ him _. He could do the impossible if he wanted._

 _He was a man who was trying to be a god, after all._

" _Being slumped over in that chair isn't good."_

" _No," she quirked an eyebrow at him, "It's really not. Wake up, Sherlock."_

"Sherlock!" Irene snapped her fingers in front of his face and he sat bolt upright.

He grunted, and his hand flew to his now bandaged up side.

"Are you alright?" she asked him.

"I'm fine," he growled. His tone suggested she get out of the way, so Irene wandered back to the bedroom, a little annoyed, a little bit concerned.

Sherlock sighed as soon as she was gone.

Funny how Katrina was just permanently stuck in his head now. Perhaps that was a small part Irene's fault for talking to him about her in the first place. He needed to forget her for a little while – not for long, but long enough that she wouldn't pop up in the future if he was in pain.

He wouldn't have Irene to help him next time, so he wouldn't succumb to it again. It had just been a knife scratch – well, fair enough, it wasn't _really_ a scratch and was far deeper than that – but it had been manageable. At least, it should have been. Maybe he was far too out of touch with feeling pain that that was why he had thought of Katrina.

Sherlock really needed to stop doing that.

He had work to do.

* * *

In all honesty, Sherlock didn't even notice when Irene had left, since he had barely taken notice of her when she was there in the first place. The only thing he did notice was that there was suddenly more room in the apartment again.

He laid out a rather large map of Venice on the living room floor. He'd been on the tracks of one of Moriarty's workers for a few days now, and he was currently marking out all the spots he had seen the person – Sherlock knew he could potentially calculate the worker's next move and location and get rid of him before anything major could happen.

That's what life was like now. Track down a person, take them out.

There was hardly any mystery to it anymore; nothing for Sherlock to exercise his brain with. It was just a mundane task that he wished somebody else could do, only there really was nobody better than him to do it. It had been his life for almost nine months now, and there really was no obvious end in sight.

It didn't matter, though; it was better for Sherlock to stay out of the limelight. Being so famous had been his (very literal) downfall in the end.

Finding the guy and ridding the world of his existence had been far too straightforward, but it meant that Sherlock's work in Venice was done for the time being. He was certain that there should have been some security threat called out in Rome at some point, but that was just him being hypothetical about the whole thing.

He thought he might as well make a pit stop there on his way out of the country, just to see how things were.

They turned out to be rather dull, and everything was far too under control for his liking. No mysteries either – all the case files he'd been stealing from the police were too boring for him to take an interest in.

At least the liquor was good.

Sherlock surprised himself one day by sitting outside the Colosseum with some limoncello – he didn't know what on earth had possessed him to buy the alcohol, but he'd been curious. It tasted bitter, yes, but then there was a sweet aftertaste. It'd been hard to find in Venice, but since Rome was a tourist hotspot, it was absolutely everywhere. There had been nothing better for him to do with his time, so he made a point of seeing all the sights. Ancient history was more interesting that today's world at the current moment, that was for sure. It was less busy this time of year too; that meant fewer people to annoy him.

Soon enough, he was more than ready to get out of the country, but not before he received a phone call.

" _Enjoying the sun, are we?"_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's tone. "Actually, I came to see if there was anything going on in Rome – there's nothing. What do you want?"

" _You're not going to Germany next. Sweden is where you're off to."_

"Brilliant, send me somewhere colder, why don't you?"

" _The crisis in Germany is being handled by my own team – you'd be impressed at what they can do. Besides… it wasn't really your area in the first place."_

The way Mycroft said that made Sherlock wonder what he was up to and who was involved.

"And how's that going?"

" _It was going perfectly well until last night."_

"What happened?" Sherlock downed the last of the tiny limoncello bottle.

" _There was… well, there was a minor incident among the major one and somebody was shot. Simple as that. It's being handled as we speak, however."_

"Fine. I'll go to Sweden then. Whereabouts?"

" _Malm_ _ö_ _. You'll prefer it over what you've been doing in Italy – it's nothing to do with the network, it's just a little mystery I thought you'd like to solve."_

Sherlock pulled a face. "How did you even find out about it? Surely they don't trust _you_ with that information, do they?"

" _You'd be surprised at what my job requires, sometimes,"_ Mycroft didn't seem too impressed with Sherlock, _"Now stop drinking that god forsaken piss-coloured beverage and get to work."_

He didn't even give Mycroft a response to that and simply hung up. Looking around, Sherlock went and tossed the now empty bottle into a bin. As much as he hated the fact that Mycroft knew exactly what he was doing at the current moment, at least his older brother had given him something interesting to do.

Now he was very determined, and very much looking forward to getting out of Italy.

The game wasn't back on, but it was something.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this! We won't be seeing Irene again for a LONG time, I'm afraid. Sherlock we won't see again for a little while. Also I can't wait for the next couple of chapters to come out - they're a lot of fun!**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	6. The Glorified Computer: Part I

Magnussen was, without a doubt, incredibly pleased with what Katrina had managed to create for him. He didn't actually come to thank her personally (for which the woman was glad about), but Mycroft passed on the message during their weekly tea session. A few other people at work had found out about their weekly tea together, and they thought it odd. Amusing, but very odd indeed.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly, until one March Wednesday afternoon when Patricia came running into her office looking quite frantic.

"There's an issue. It's quite big – you might want to–"

"I'm coming." Katrina rose from her desk and ran out of her office behind Patricia, where they headed to the main floor. Even Mycroft was there, and he was _never_ there. Whatever was going on, it was clearly _very_ serious. The television screen up on the wall was hooked up to the computer that Katrina noticed Daniel to be working on, and therefore had their intranet and system up.

"Good of you to join us, Miss Jenkins," he mused. "We'll be in need of your assistance."

"What's going on?"

"There's been a massive breach in our German headquarters," Daniel explained. Katrina turned to stare at him, then Mycroft, then back to him, then back to Mycroft.

" _German headquarters?_ "

"We needed a base somewhere out in Europe; it's relatively new, only been running for about a year and a half," Mycroft told her. "It makes for data transfers from agents out in the field to be a lot easier."

"Why can't they handle it over there?"

"It's mainly receptionists and security guards over there – think of it as a _back up_ system too."

"Right. So what do you want me to do?"

"Try and access our German network from here. The four of you can try and brainstorm what to do and I really _do_ urge you to get it done. I don't want to have to actually send you out into the middle of it all – there's too much important information at risk here."

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. So as of right now, the entirety of MI6 was depending on her and three other nerds. Brilliant. "You," she pointed at some random person at the computer next to Daniel, "Move please. I need your spot."

The man in question gave her a worried glance, but moved away quickly all the same. She sat down and ensured that her computer was hooked up to the television for all to see, and not Daniel's. The younger man glared at her when she overrode him like that.

"So you want us to basically drive them back out? Reinforce the firewalls? Maybe throw a few viruses at them if necessary?" Katrina called back over to Mycroft. "I mean, the viruses would be my own personal touch, I've been having fun in my spare time..."

Daniel gave her a _very_ strange look. "What _do_ you do in your spare time?"

"That's classified," Katrina said without a beat. _I do all of this but on an illegal level…_ she thought to herself. There was no way she wanted to let the government know that that was what she did a lot. The only person in the government she was okay with knowing that information was Mycroft, because he wouldn't tell anybody anyway.

"Do whatever you have to," Mycroft replied, folding his arms. "There's too much at risk here, and we can't let this information leak out. We can't let whoever wants it to have it."

"I think we understand, sir," Patricia said, finally sitting down in an empty spot. Samuel was there too, and the four of them got to do what they did best – dealing with computers in any way possible.

In that moment, Katrina suddenly became aware of the fact that she didn't really know where the others' expertise lay, but by sneaking a glance at Daniel's computer, she figured out that he was a dab hand at finding any dud code. That was something she knew she should look into more, but as of right now, Katrina was trying to rework the coding of the system entirely.

Whatever each of the four of them were doing, it was working. They seemed to be finished when suddenly a big red exclamation mark popped up on television screen.

The four programmers looks at each other in dismay. It had been twenty minutes since they first started, and now they anxiously awaited for a certain four words to fall from Mycroft's mouth.

"Four flights to Berlin."

They all groaned at the same time.

"In the next hour."

They groaned once more. This was really not turning out to be a very good day for any of them.

* * *

They were in Germany by about eight o'clock with instructions on how to get to the headquarters there. The four of them were nervous, and that was because there was a good chance that they were going to run into something pretty messy. The base in Berlin was, as Mycroft had put it, a backup. Receptionists and security guards only, the other people who worked for MI6 went there to drop off and pick up information, a majority of which was stored on a very large computer.

That very large computer (large meaning it held a lot of memory and was therefore priceless), received maintenance once a month from someone who flew over from the United Kingdom, and was only ever to be touched by people taking and giving information to it. Nothing more, nothing less. It had been running for a year and a half.

Katrina had been expecting it to be like the London headquarters, given how Mycroft had described it, but the other three had taken to kindly explaining to her what the deal with the German headquarters actually was. It really was just a glorified computer, apparently.

"You've all got your guns, yes?" Katrina then asked them.

"I've never used a gun before. I mean, training doesn't exactly count, because you're just shooting at a bit of paper," Samuel muttered, and the others said things along a similar line.

"I've not really used a gun before, either," Katrina said. "Only ever been shot at with one."

"Reassuring, Jenkins, really reassuring." Daniel rolled his eyes up at her. If any other situation, Katrina might have elbowed him, but they had arrived. Also it was really not a good time to get into a conflict with her colleague. "Were you not trained?"

"Nope," she faltered for a moment. "That could be a problem. I'll have to wing it."

"I never thought I'd have to go out into the field like this," Patricia said as they walked up the steps to the unassuming, one-floor building. "It's quite exciting, isn't it?"

"You were really grumpy on the plane on the way here."

"Yes, but now that we're _here_ , I'm looking at things differently."

Katrina didn't respond, since she was the one who took it upon herself to let them in the building. The first thing they noticed was that the receptionist was dead. There were some rather lovely blood splatters on the back wall behind him. Samuel stepped back outside for a moment.

"Guns out, everyone, I'll lead," Daniel said, stepping in front of Katrina with his weapon primed. "Jenkins, check the security feed."

She glanced behind her to see how Samuel was doing and sighed. "Actually, I think that can be Corner's job. He just vomited. As much as he wouldn't want to be near that dead body, he's not got the stomach to see more of that."

"Fine." Daniel was clearly pissed off about that, and Katrina decided that she really didn't have time for his white, male, privileged ego right now. Or ever, to be perfectly honest.

When Samuel was back in, he checked over the cameras to find everywhere else in the building was empty, apart from security guards littered about either dead or unconscious.

"I'll stay here..." he said, looking a little weak. Patrica patted him on the back before they went through one of the side doors and down a corridor.

 _All of this for a glorified computer…_ Katrina couldn't help but think as they finally made it to the room where it was kept. It was absolutely freezing in there, but then again it was a room for a computer that was never turned off.

"Stay by the door, Davies," Daniel instructed Patricia, who did as he said without any fuss. He and Katrina then made their way over to the computer, to find that whoever had been messing about with it had left their things behind.

They were still trying to get information off of the computer and onto a USB. That might have explained why it was so hard for them to try and stop whatever was happening.

It also meant that whoever was doing this, was still there.

"Who the hell would come all this way to manually get the information they need?" Daniel was muttering to himself as he pulled out the USB and started to get to work. Daniel had put his gun down on the floor, while Katrina had shoved it down the front of the jeans that she was now wearing.

"Someone desperate." Katrina had a look at the USB, to see it had a set of initials on it. "A. G. R. A… whoever that is..."

"Got it!" the man exclaimed excitedly. "Can you come in here and reinforce the firewalls?"

"Yeah sure..." Katrina dropped the USB and started to strengthen their security, when she noticed one of the windows open that made her heart flutter. "Smith… look at this."

"What is it?" He popped up by her shoulder again.

"Someone was digging around for stuff about Sherlock Holmes... Oh my god, there's stuff about me they've got up too..."

"Mycroft's brother? The guy who came looking for you? Why do they want to know about you?"

"But why is it _here_? Why is there stuff about Sherlock _here?_ And _me_? Wait, there's more..." Katrina found a few more windows open. "Harriet Watson – who's that? – and someone called Anas–"

A shot fired out from in the corridor, and Daniel sped off towards the source of the noise. "Don't get distracted, keep working!"

"Right!" Frantically, Katrina closed all the windows that had nothing to do with their system, and carried on with her work. She was almost there when she heard both Patricia and Daniel cry out, and she knew that she was on her own.

By the time Katrina was done, she heard the safety trigger of a gun click off from behind her, and she immediately put her hands in the air. She shut her eyes tight and hoped for the best.

"Where's the memory stick?" A female voice asked her.

"On – on the floor. Just there." Katrina nodded with her head towards her left. She heard someone go to pick it up, and went to turn to see who it was.

"Don't move," said the woman. "Do you think it's all on there?"

"Yes," said a second female voice. "Didn't get a chance to delete the files on the system, though. Madam and her friends here made sure of that."

They were both English. That was interesting. Katrina hadn't been expecting that.

"Okay darling," the first woman's voice was right by her ear. "You're going to delete those files that you saw up there. If you don't, it's going to be on your head. See, I've got the tranquiliser, but my friend here has proper bullets."

Katrina swallowed hard. She was beginning to sweat.

"She doesn't have to erase them. As long as she didn't read them, we're safe. We're both safe."

"You read them?" Katrina was asked. She shook her head in response. "Good. You're free to go."

Katrina risked a look again, to see the two women (both clad from head to foot in black) pretty much sprinting to get out of there. Yet Katrina had another idea, and before she knew it, the gun was in her hand again and she had fired out a shot at one of them. It hit them in the leg and she fell, and it was only then that Katrina realised her mistake.

The other one turned and fired back, except it didn't ring out. No, instead of there being the blinding pain of a bullet, Katrina was greeted with the sharp sting of a tranquiliser dart. Within a few moments, she had lost consciousness.

* * *

"Oi, kid, wake up," Sebastian Moran said, snapping his fingers in the face of Samuel Corner. The latter let out a grunt as he fully regained consciousness and sat up. He stared at Moran, confused.

"Who are you?"

"That doesn't matter. Where are the rest of your team?"

"They're back there… hey, wait!"

Moran was already running towards where Samuel had pointed, but Daniel and Patricia were already on their way out. The three of them all skidded to a halt in the corridor, and the two MI6 workers drew their guns on Moran.

"Who are you?" Daniel asked him.

Moran held his hands up in surrender to show he didn't mean them any harm. "I'm looking for two assassins. Last I heard was that they were here."

"You look like one of them."

"I'm freelance," he shrugged. "I've been tracking them for weeks, now."

"Why?"

"So I could stop them from getting in here, although it looks like I'm a bit too late for that… you with Britain?"

"Yeah. Look..." Daniel lowered his gun. "We're kind of in a hurry, one of us has gone missing."

"Who?"

"We're not going to tell you that. We don't even know who you are," Patricia said, still keeping her weapon aimed at Moran.

"It might be in your best interest to tell me, because you're already running out of time. Whoever's got your friend or colleague or whatever is absolutely ruthless. I mean it. I know I got here too late, but that doesn't mean it won't happen again – I was held up in Italy, you see."

"We can't trust you – Smith, keep it up!"

Daniel had his gun raised again, and Moran just sighed.

"I can help you. I promise that. You won't have to pay me, and you won't even have to tell Mycroft about that I helped."

"You know Mycroft?"

"I know _of_ Mycroft, and I know where he works. Almost had a run in with his brother a few times. In fact..." Moran took this opportunity to lower his hands – they were warming up to him. "I had an _actual_ run in with his friend."

Something clicked in Daniel's head – or at least he thought.

"John Watson?"

"No. The other one."

His eyes widened. "Jenkins."

"Katrina Ann, yes." Moran turned on his heel and began to make his way back out to the reception area, the other two following him. Samuel looked relieved to see they were still alive and well.

"Where's Katrina?" he asked them.

"They took her," Daniel said.

"They took _Katrina_?" Moran was surprised at first, but then his eyes darkened. "She needs to get herself some better luck. Since when was she working with you lot anyway? I thought she only this did as–"

The three of them stared him expectantly, waiting for him to actually finish his sentence.

"Never mind that. If she's the one they took, then I can get her back. But I'm going to warn you now – they're going to torture her. They're going to play on her fears–"

"How would they know what she fears if they don't know anything about her?" Patricia asked him.

"There was something about her on the system," Daniel muttered. "I know they've got stuff on all of us, but Jenkins' seemed far too detailed… Normal files aren't like that. And those two assassins got hold of it."

"And they like to play on fears. It'll break her," Moran continued.

"How do you know?"

"I've seen it for myself. I've seen her get broken. Now: do you want my help or not? Because I'm the best you've got right now."

Unfortunately, none of them could deny it. They wouldn't have a clue on where to begin in tracking down two assassins they had never met before. Daniel stepped forward.

"You bring her back to us in one piece, alright?"

"Of course."

"That means you've got to look after her until she's alright again."

Moran tilted his head to the side, noticing how persistent Daniel was in trying to ensure Katrina's wellbeing. "That's fair."

"Good. I'll inform Mycroft what's happened to Jenkins."

"That's probably wise." Moran made to leave when he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder at Daniel. "What was your name?"

"Smith. Daniel Smith."

"Well, Smith. As much as I hate to tell you this, don't go around getting a soft spot for Katrina."

He gave Moran and odd look, and laughed without humour. "Me? Soft spot for _her_? You're having a laugh, mate."

"No, I'm not. I can hear it in your voice. You're more worried about her than the rest of them. Don't go around thinking you can be friends with her, because for one, she won't want to be, and two, she picks her friends wisely."

He left without another word, leaving the three of them utterly bemused.

* * *

 **This is where things get interesting. You'll find out why soon(ish), I promise.**

 **I'm super excited for the Sherlock Christmas special on Friday night! Even though it's not continuing on with the BBC canon, I'm just really glad we get something considering how in demand Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman are right now. At least Benedict is will be going straight from Dr Strange filming to Sherlock filming for series 4! So excited :D**

 **Comment? Please? They're all dropping a bit :(**

 **-OL.**


	7. The Glorified Computer: Part II

When Katrina awoke, she was in pitch black and sitting upright, most likely tied to a chair. She wriggled around a little bit to find that, yes, she was into tied to a chair. She couldn't move her hands or feet that much at all, without the danger of the chair beginning to wobble and potentially topple over. It was then that Katrina fully realised the mistake of shooting at the assassins – that was what they were, it was obvious. No stealth in the world could amount to any other profession.

The familiarity of the situation scared her. She remembered being tied to a chair nearly a year ago, Jim Moriarty taunting her and trying to get information out of her – information that she thought she didn't have, until it was too late. Images of rats began to flitter into her mind; she couldn't stop herself from thinking about the biting and the scratching of them.

Tears were beginning to sting Katrina's eyes, and she tried her best to hide them; she tried her best to stop thinking about Moriarty. It was probably what they wanted – the assassins who took her. The _women_ who took her. God, she never thought she'd be back in this position again, not with two unknowns with her as well.

She heard footsteps approaching, and then there was light. It was above her, but Katrina blinked and allowed her vision to adjust, her eyes watering over anyway. That was a good enough excuse as to why there were tear tracks down her face. The light was too bright. Simple as. She needed to keep it together, so she sat up a little straighter and kept her expression taut. Katrina knew this was probably a bad time to betray any emotion that she felt.

"We could have left you, you know. But you had to go and fire that _bloody_ thing," said one of the women, walking into Katrina's eye line. She was still covered head to toe in black, with only her eyes uncovered. "I expect you've worked out who I am by now. You're clever enough."

How could Katrina have possibly worked out who she was? She thought back to the files in on the computer and that was when it clicked together. "Harriet Watson."

"You've not really done yourself any favours, love. Shooting me? Yeah, that'll put a black mark on you for life, actually." Harriet crouched down in front of Katrina, obviously wincing, giving the latter a good opportunity to really look at her eyes. There weren't many Watsons in the world, but there's no way she could have been related to John. She had to check. She knew John's eyes, and she was certain that any relation to him would have similar ones.

"If I'm honest, life hasn't done me any favours, actually. My entire life might as well be a black mark," Katrina replied. Harriet chuckled.

"Oh, I know. I read your file. Quite useful, actually. Really useful. Had some lovely little details about how Jim Moriarty decided to make you squeal."

Katrina tensed up, and Harriet seemed smug.

"That got a bit of a reaction out of you. I just have to say his name, don't I? Or is it just remembering what he did to you? Because I can tell you right now… he's child's play compared to what we're going to do with you. It's everything that he did but far worse. How does that sound?"

Katrina didn't respond to that question. She didn't need to. It was obvious how she felt about that, and it was exactly what the assassins wanted. At least she had figured out who Harriet was.

"You're John Watson's sister."

Now Harriet hadn't been expecting that. It was her turn to tense up.

"How is my older brother?" she replied through gritted teeth.

"Haven't spoken to him for almost four months. Pretty certain he still thinks you're an alcoholic." Where the _hell_ was all this courage coming from? Katrina didn't know, and she didn't mind not knowing. She needed it. She really, really needed it. If she was to stay sane, she needed a little courage. Shame it wasn't the sort that came in a bottle.

"Let him keep thinking that," Harriet said darkly, standing up again. She was definitely in a considerable amount of pain, and Katrina felt pride rush through her at that thought. She'd never fired a gun before – she'd been aiming for the woman's back (if there was anything she learnt from a movie and random online googling, it was better to aim for the largest surface on a person) but seeing as she fired pretty quickly, her aim went off balance and so had hit her leg instead. That was most definitely lucky for her.

Although not so lucky in that she ended up here, waiting to be made use of in these assassins' revenge. Would she die here? She had no clue. She sincerely hoped she didn't – Mycroft would probably never forgive himself. None of them would, most likely. Katrina couldn't be having that. She didn't want people feeling bad over a mistake that _she_ made.

The only thought that would help keep her sanity for the next six hours, was the thought of the fact that she managed to put a stop to that security breach. Sort of. Not all of the information the assassins wanted had gotten onto that memory stick. Katrina knew that because she'd actually deleted a lot of them from there. Not that they knew that. They had probably been too preoccupied with her for the time being.

"Ana," was the last thing Harriet said before disappearing back into the darkness. Katrina could hear another faint pair of footsteps from behind her, and then something soft was placed on her shoulder.

 _No, no, no, no, no…_ Katrina squeezed her eyes shut tight, as she felt the nose of the rodent press up against her throat. It wasn't going to do anything, she knew that deep down, but that still didn't stop her from fretting that it could bite her.

She felt something by her feet now, too. Was this really happening again? It was. It really, really was.

The other woman – Ana – kicked over her chair, and she could feel the furry little things crawling around her. Then something grainy was poured over and around her.

"They're hungry," Ana said, before making her way out as well. She switched off the light too.

Katrina let her resolve crumble, and she let out a strangled cry.

Everything was pitch black again, and all she could hear was scuttling rats.

Now she really began to regret her actions when at the Glorified Computer. There was no possibly way that her night could get worse, could it? She had to assumed it was night time now, but there was no telling. Katrina didn't know how long she'd actually been passed out from the sedative.

She didn't know how long this lasted. She endured through biting and scratching on her face, hands, and ankles again. She endured through the memories of it being done to her last year, too. She endured to the point where she simply blacked out again from fear.

" _What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked her. She was in 221B; she was home. She was snuggled up under a blanket on the sofa, Sherlock staring down at her curiously. "You're better than this, come on."_

" _You don't understand… you don't understand..." she mumbled. "You don't know what happened..."_

" _Don't I? Because I know what's going on right now."_

" _But you don't know about before..."_

 _Sherlock sighed and came to sit on the armrest by her head. Katrina didn't look up at him. There was an odd sense of shame running about her; shame that she had let herself get into the same situation twice. The Sherlock inside her head wasn't real, of course, it was just a version of him she made up to motivate her; tell her off when necessary._

 _Katrina felt she needed a telling off right about now. It would be the only normal thing to arise out of this event. There was no way in hell that real life Sherlock would berate her for this. Perhaps he might make an accidental insensitive jab, but that was it. He wouldn't be annoyed with her for shooting an assassin. She wouldn't have known what would come next, and nor would he._

" _What if I did know about before? What happened before wasn't your fault. It was mine. As much as you don't want to say it, you know that deep down it was my fault. Perhaps Mycroft's too. We took… we took too much interest in you. I know your father had had that one dealing with Moriarty, but we sent you back into his web..." Sherlock awkwardly patted her on the head. This was not the telling off that she had been expecting. It wasn't even a telling off at all._

" _I wish you were out there… getting rid of every last bit of that web..." she said. "That would be a kindness to me. Not that stupid fucking 'favour' you did by jumping off the roof."_

" _Katrina..." Who cared if it was a Sherlock that only existed in her mind? The sound of his voice saying her name was enough to make her feel at home again. "If I were here, I would be doing that, and you know that."_

" _Except you're not here. You're not alive. You're just inside my head."_

" _Once I get in, I can never leave. I thought you of all people would know that by now."_

" _It's a fact I try to ignore, thanks very much." Katrina then noticed something odd. Her blanket was becoming very damp with every passing second. "What the hell…?" She glanced up at Sherlock to see he was frowning down at the now obviously wet blanket._

" _I think you ought to be waking up now."_

" _But how?" Katrina cried out, jumping to her feet. Her clothes her wet too, clinging to her skin and she didn't know what to do. She couldn't just wake up, could she? Was she able to force herself to do that?_

 _She clutched at her throat, finding it tightening. "I can't – oh my god – Sherlock–"_

 _He stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, looking her directly in the eye. "I think we both know that you're drowning. You're beginning to choke on the water. They're either trying to kill you or wake you up, and you'll never know if you don't bloody try to get back to the real world!"_

 _When she didn't respond and just simply started scrabbling at her throat, Sherlock shook the woman. "Katrina! Do yourself a favour for once and listen to me! Listen to yourself. Wake. Up!"_

 _Everything was becoming fuzzy now; Sherlock was simply a blurry outline, and he was fading away. His touch on her arms was becoming less real as time ticked by, and 221B began to go into nothingness around her. She dropped down into complete darkness, choking and gasping, unknowing how to wake herself up._

 _A sudden pain in her chest brought her back._

Katrina rolled over, coughing and spluttering, expelling all the water from her lungs onto the cold concrete. She was trembling from how cold the water had been; a quick glance to her right told her that she'd been immersed in a tub of some form.

"Good, you're awake," said Harriet. "This'll make it more fun."

She'd barely had a chance to breathe before she was put right but into the tub again, except this time she was able to struggle against her captors. Everything about this was unfair; everything about this was _wrong._ All because she shot somebody who had threatened her, her colleagues, and could have caused some serious to MI6. They were doing this for fun.

Katrina found it hard to move upwards against two women who was stronger than her, but then her saving grace came when they both slackened their grip. She was able to move her entire body – as weak as it felt for someone who had just been drowned – and grip the sides of the tub. Katrina turned to see behind her and saw Sebastian Moran holding a pair of pistols, each one trained on one of them women.

"You leave her. You leave the woman alone, _now._ "

It was strange to think that she had missed that cool voice of his; there was a softness to it that irked and relaxed Katrina at the same time. In this case, she felt more relaxed. Moran's voice meant that she knew she was safe.

Both Harriet and Ana stepped away from the tub, and Moran beckoned to Katrina. She got out, and stumbled her way across the room towards him. As soon as she got there, she held onto one of his arms as means of support. He shot her a quick glance as she mumbled a thank you, before nodding and turning his attention back to the female assassins.

"We thought we lost you in Budapest," Ana said.

"Unfortunately for you, I'm too good at my job."

"You've not really got anything to do since Moriarty blew his brains out, have you? So you're going round killing _us_?" Harriet quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I've been paid a nice sum. Sorry I don't work with you anymore, ladies, but you might want to run again. I'm not entirely happy you decided to use my friend for your own amusement, so I'm giving you a head start." A dark look crossed his face, and that was enough to make the women reconsider their actions for a moment. They knew he was angry; incredibly so, and they knew he was going to be hot on their trail far worse than he was before.

"See you on the next continent, Moran."

They both ran off, out a different exit of the grimy place they had been keeping Katrina in. Moran finally lowered his weapons and put them away, properly giving Katrina attention now.

"Are you alright?"

"My chest hurts," she whispered.

"That's bound to happen. You were drowned. You're not gonna feel right for a few days," he paused a moment, "Can you walk alright?"

"My legs feel like jelly," Katrina gave a weak laugh. Moran nodded, and picked her up bridal-style, where she clung to him, surprised at how safe she actually felt.

Then again, he had never ever wanted to hurt her in the first place. He had morals, after all.

* * *

Moran's humble abode in Germany was quite to Katrina's taste, and she felt very comfortable there. He spent the better part of that very late night convincing her to get some sleep, even though there was only a single bed in the small apartment. While she was in some of his dry clothes (they were a little big for her, but she was only using them to sleep in while her clothes dried), she got into bed and waited, since Moran was also quite intent he sort out her injuries.

They sat in silence for some time while he cleaned them – despite the fact at least half of them had healed over, he still wanted to do it anyway.

"How did you know where to find me?" Katrina finally asked. It was coming up to about three in the morning now, and they were both absolutely shattered.

"I've been tracking Harriet and Ana for a while now," he began, "Then I ran into your... _friends_ at the German headquarters."

"They're not my friends," Katrina scoffed, and Moran chuckled, "And they're hardly headquarters – more like a Glorified Computer."

"Sounds about right… guess that's Mycroft making it out to be more important than it actually is, eh?" He smiled at her for the first time ever, since Katrina knew him. She shrugged.

"It's quite an important computer. It serves as a back up and also has some valuable information on it. So please don't go around trying to break into it."

"Wouldn't dream of it, love," he replied, finally discarding the cotton wool that he was using to clean her up. "Should be good now." He stood up and went to leave the room when he stopped in the doorway. "I know they're not your friends, but Daniel..."

"Daniel can go fuck himself for all I care," Katrina muttered, settling down into the bed properly now.

"Daniel was the one who told me to bring you back in one piece. You're not leaving here until I know you're better."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, so decided to get some sleep instead. An unspoken "good night" hung in the air between them, and finally Moran stepped into the living room and sat in the armchair in there. He wasn't planning on sleeping tonight. He was a small bit paranoid that the women might come to try and find Katrina. He knew they wouldn't be so stupid as to do that, but it was a thought that worried him nonetheless.

As far as Moran knew, he was glad that Katrina was living a better life after what Moriarty put her through – the amount of regret that filled him that all he could do was just stand there and watch or be put in the same position as her… it was better that he stood and did nothing while she went through pain at that time. It meant that he was sent to make sure she wasn't bleeding everywhere, and he could tell her that he couldn't stand the treatment of innocent people in that way.

So he didn't get a wink of sleep until Katrina woke up later that morning. Well, she woke up in the afternoon, and he took an hour or so at her insistence. He woke up to her eating some eggs, and saw that she had made some for him. That was kind of her, and potentially unnecessary. He sat down on the floor so he could eat – the armchair was the only seat in the room.

The silence between them was weird this time, like neither of them knew what to do. Moran was just glad that Katrina broke it first.

"When can I go back?"

He noticed how she was still wearing his clothes.

"If your clothes are dry, you can go and find them now. I told them about a cheap place they could stay, but then when they told Mycroft what happened… well, he found them something better." Moran couldn't help but wonder about that man's power in the world. He always played down his job, but Moran was beginning to think that Mycroft was simply doing it out of modesty.

Katrina was quiet for a moment, and set down her plate on the floor. "I don't think I want to go back yet."

"Fair enough," he shrugged. "But why?"

"You intrigue me," she said, without missing a beat. "All I know is that you're an assassin. Or you were – I don't know? Are you still?"

"Kind of. Except probably more legal," Moran said slowly. "Why do you want to know?"

She had a thoughtful look on her face, and went to go and sit next to Moran on the floor. "You have a handcrafted gun. One of it's kind. Requires special bullets."

He laughed. "That was a long time ago, love. That was when I worked for Jim."

"You shot me with one of those bullets."

All humour evaporated from his face, and he looked down at the floor. "Didn't know it was you, love..." his voice was barely audible.

Without even questioning it – it was just an instant reflex to her – Katrina took hold of Sebastian's hand and squeezed it gently. Moran was surprised by the gesture, and glanced at Katrina, who held a sympathetic look on her face.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and Katrina pulled him into her arms. "I owe you. I owe you a favour."

"I think you've settled that, Sebastian."

"Call me Seb," he said into her shoulder.

"Call me Kat," she quipped in response.

Moran tugged away from her a moment, finding their current position odd, but as he looked up into her eyes, her lips were on his within a second. He considered stopped her, pulling away, but nothing felt wrong about it. She was everything good that had come into his life, and he wasn't letting that go for a second.

His hands found their way to her waist, and with some ease, he moved her so that she was straddling his lap. She felt so warm in his arms, and it was strange to think that he was even kissing someone – it had been far too long since that had happened. The funny thing was that Katrina was rough. There was no tenderness there; whatever tenderness had been there at first was gone, and it made Moran aware of the fact that she knew exactly what she wanted.

She just wanted sex. He could give that to her. He wanted the exact same thing too, no two ways about it.

The chances of them seeing each other again after this were slim, anyway. They both led completely different lives; lives that they were both using the next couple of hours to take a break from. They deserved a break, yes? That question was answered the minute that Katrina's hand slipped into his pants.

Yes. They deserved a break indeed.

* * *

 **Well, Katrina's going to enjoy the repercussions of that little encounter at the end there (not). Also I promise to try not to be so mean to her in the future, I've already got pointlesspostits on my case about this already, along with Mrs 11th and MayFairy. Woops. Shoutout to you guys for supporting this fic heavily, even during that 2 year hiatus I had with the first one. :)**

 **Anyway, would my other readers care to leave a comment? Reviews have dropped and I am Sad because I love feedback. Seen some of you favouriting and alerting though, so thanks very much for that! Glad that this is interesting enough for you to do it :D**

 **-OL.**


	8. Various Repercussions

Being sat opposite Mycroft while he glared at her, was not how Katrina wanted to spend the following Monday morning. She'd just been summoned there and now he was glaring at her. She didn't know what for, but he must have found out something and obviously was not impressed with her. Neither of them had spoken for the best of ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and it didn't look like either of them were going to break the silence soon.

Katrina ran through a list in her head of what could possibly be the problem that Mycroft had with her currently. She couldn't have done anything _that_ bad. It had been a few days since the incident in Germany, and _now_ he decided he was angry with her. Unless of course he had done some digging – she would put it past him, Mycroft had a tendency to do that sort of thing.

Had one of the group told him something that they shouldn't have? Actually, did any of the group know that she had slept with Sebastian? As far as Katrina remembered, she hadn't told any of them, and she let out a small sigh of relief at that. Mycroft heard the noise she made and he raised an eyebrow at her, before going back to staring daggers. Was he giving her the silent treatment because she had shot someone? It couldn't have been that, those two assassins had compromised their security and decided to knock out or kill everyone in their path. Katrina thought she had had every right to fire that gun, even if it had led to her own demise.

She was still covered in bite marks and scratches, and her chest still hurt from being drowned and coughing up all that water. Katrina was quite surprised she didn't have any permanent brain damage from that, considering how dangerous it was to pretty much come back from the dead after drowning. The thought of it still made her skin crawl.

Either way – this was possibly the most awkward situation she had ever been in with Mycroft – the most annoying one too – and it was hard to figure out why. Katrina had done everything she had been asked of in regards to sorting out Germany, she was good at her job, and Magnussen was pleased with her work. What could she have _possibly_ done wrong to piss off Mycroft this much? She didn't do drugs, she wasn't a drinker, she had the occasional cigarette but so did Mycroft, and she had a weird sleeping pattern. Nothing that he could fault her for, really. There wasn't anything he could fault her for professionally or personally.

It was coming up to about twenty minutes of silence now. That was ridiculous in itself. Katrina considered talking, but Mycroft seemed to have read her mind on that front and beat her to it.

"I'm disappointed in you, Katrina," he began with a slight shake of the head. That was odd. He'd never used the word 'disappointed' and 'Katrina' in the same sentence before. It was definitely serious, then. The woman gave him a look as if to prompt him. "While you weren't at fault in regards to the shooting – in fact, I'm rather _glad_ you shot one of them – you did fraternise with an assassin."

Ah. So it was about that. He was faulting her for something personal. The big question was how did he even find out? Katrina's lips drew together in a thin line before she responded. "I didn't tell anybody about that. Do I want to know how you know?"

Something changed in Mycroft's expression that suggested a lot to Katrina – and it made her angry.

"I know that privacy is hard to come by in today's world, Mycroft, but anything I didn't tell anyone, or put out there in the world or online or whatever, or _anything_ that wasn't caught by a security camera – that – that is an _invasion of my privacy!_ " she snapped at him. He visibly winced, perhaps realising his mistake.

"I – I was concerned–"

"Bullshit, Mycroft. Bull _shit._ " Katrina cut across him, not caring for the fact he was trying to cover up his mistake with a lame excuse that he probably knew she wouldn't believe. She knew that Mycroft was just obsessed with keeping tabs on her. Usually it was fine when he was using security cameras to his advantage – nobody could escape from security cameras – but it was becoming clear that he had used unorthodox means. That was something she couldn't accept.

"I appreciate the fact that he saved your life," Mycroft them mumbled, sitting up a little straighter. "You didn't have to stay with him for a day or two extra. I don't care if Sebastian Moran is reformed, you are more important to me than he ever will be. Consider him a goldfish. Consider yourself a shark. I'd take my bets on a shark over a goldfish _any_ day."

"Nice metaphor, but I'm not really buying it today," Katrina told him, "Because I can appreciate the fact you probably looked at security footage to know where Sebastian took me, but I don't appreciate the fact you somehow found out I slept with him. He's quite a nice goldfish. You should find one of your own some day."

Now it was Katrina's turn to glare at Mycroft. She could 'fraternise' with who she wanted, thanks very much, assassin or not. At least he was one of the good guys now, even if Mycroft really didn't want to believe it. He couldn't say anything in response to Katrina, so she just carried on.

"It was his idea to come and get me. He'd been following the two assassins who took me, and he came and found me. You should be a little more thankful, instead of just 'appreciating' it, and then proceeding to disapprove of the fact I stayed with him for a couple of days."

"You need therapy," Mycroft stated in such a matter of fact way that Katrina blanched, the anger melting from her face immediately. "You honest to god need therapy, Katrina Ann Jenkins."

Those words made her think back to the previous summer, where everybody was so intent on making her go talk to a stranger about her trauma and feelings and everything about her life. Katrina was desperate not to do that.

"You… you don't have a say in that," she told him quietly, staring down at her feet and beginning to twiddle her thumbs in her lap.

"I'm your employer. Of course I do."

She was scowling at the floor now. "So you're trying to make my personal matters work related now?"

Mycroft sighed, but Katrina didn't dare look back up at him. "John, Irene, Sebastian… I'm concerned you're simply using sex as a means of distracting yourself from grief."

She didn't say anything in response – she couldn't say anything in response – simply because he was right. It had started with John, and Katrina knew exactly what she was doing then. With Irene, she had used that as a minor connection to Sherlock. Sebastian was… well, Sebastian just made her forget about everything for a short while. Although, Katrina didn't want to admit Mycroft was right; that would hurt her pride too much.

"Katrina?"

The woman finally looked up at him to find that Mycroft's expression had softened and he clearly wasn't as annoyed with her as before.

"A lot of that still isn't your business," she whispered. "What happens in my flat isn't for you to know unless I tell you," she raised her voice back to normal speaking level, "And don't be pedantic about when I say 'my flat.' You know exactly what I mean. We're meant to be friends as well, yes? So don't go sticking your nose where it's not meant to."

"I can't argue with that." Mycroft gave her a wry smile, which Katrina didn't even bother returning. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," Katrina rose from the seat. "I have work to be getting on with, and we already wasted twenty minutes in here saying nothing. Thanks for that, I'll be staying later than I need to tonight."

Mycroft waved that off. "No, no, go home at your normal time. Don't overwork yourself."

She rolled her eyes. "Stop worrying about me. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, thanks very much."

Katrina left Mycroft's office on that note, considerably irate – but less so than she had been. So much for Mycroft being concerned, but she wasn't sure if he knew what concern actually _was._ Yes, she had slept with an assassin, but that wasn't any cause for concern to be quite honest. He really didn't understand the idea of privacy, now that she thought about it on the way back to her office.

The rest of the day passed in a doll humdrum. Nothing particularly exciting – then again, would could possibly be more exciting than what happened the week previously? It would be a while before anything could suitably compare to the carnage that was Germany. That was really all she could refer to it is – carnage, mayhem, ridiculous… exciting, yes, but absolute and pure carnage.

She didn't really pay attention when Patricia came in to give her something, she totally ignored Daniel, and Samuel didn't even stop by. Well, he might have done, but he was generally a quiet guy so it's not like she would have noticed anyway – ignoring him would have been unintentional. With Daniel, it was a choice.

She still found it strange that he had been the one to ensure that Sebastian brought her back to them alive, well, and most importantly, in one piece. Now that bothered her – that bothered her a lot. Why did Daniel care so much about her possibly not being okay in that situation, but not give a flying fuck about her on a regular basis?

Katrina was still in the office at ten o'clock at night when he came in again.

"You not going home tonight, Jenkins?" Daniel's voice from the doorway made her jump. "Dunno if you want to catch a tube or not?"

"Me? Catch a tube with you?" She raised an eyebrow at him as he waltzed into her office, all wrapped up for the fairly cold weather outside. "The _outrage._ "

"Just thought you might want some company home, is all." He shrugged, and Katrina sighed, going to sit on the front of her desk.

"What's your deal? You hated me and then suddenly you wanted me alive and safe. Sebastian told me it was _you_ who made him make sure I was in 'one piece' by the time I showed my face again. What's up with that?" she asked him, folding her arms and giving him a slightly calculating look.

"Maybe I realised I did want to be friends with you."

She snorted. "Not the best idea for the current moment."

"Why?"

"I… need time for myself. Work things out. Sort through my problems, maybe even finally stop grieving..." she trailed off. "I'm quite an angry person, deep down. This is the only time I've not been like that – it turned into sadness, and I don't know whether I prefer that more than the rage I used to feel."

Daniel nodded. "Right. That's… that's understandable, I guess. I don't really know what happened in your life, but… I know you were friends with that guy. That detective – Mycroft's brother. Is that who you're grieving?"

"Yeah. It was him. _Is_ him. It's not as raw as it was, but it seemed as if Mycroft figured out _how_ I'm dealing with the whole grieving process," she said that with such bitterness than Daniel looked rather taken aback.

"...How _are_ you dealing with it?"

The corner of Katrina's lips twitched upwards in a brutal half smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes."

The smile dropped her face. "Well you don't. And there's got to be more to you wanting to be friends with me. You had a bit of a sudden change of heart in Germany."

"You're very valuable to the team," Daniel admitted. "Mycroft picked the right person for the job."

"Shouldn't he be _Mr Holmes_ or _sir_ to you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You don't call him either of those things."

"I knew Mycroft. It's different. We have tea every Monday – except for today, for rather obvious reasons..."

"Which were…?"

"You're a nosy son of a bitch, you know that right? I've had enough of people nosing into my personal life recently, and I'd like you a little better if you stopped with the incessant questions." Katrina took this moment to get her coat on and shove everything she needed into her bag. "I'll walk with you to the tube station, but we don't get the same line, by the way."

Again, he looked taken aback. "Sorry – sorry assuming, I always see you on the escalator in the mornings..."

She rolled her eyes. "I live at Baker Street, I'm Northbound on Jubilee. Not Eastbound to Monument."

"How did you know–?"

For some reason, Katrina was beginning to seethe. Perhaps it was because her patience had truly been tried for the day, perhaps it was because she really didn't like Daniel, she wouldn't ever be able to properly figure it out. "You learn a fucking trick or two from a detective. Come on, let's go."

She was halfway across the room before stopping. "Actually. No."

"Why?" He was confused, and had every right to be.

"Because I'll just get on the train to Monument with you, and then I'll fuck you when we get back to yours. And then I'll leave. That's what I'm like. I've always been like it. It's how I've been dealing with grief." Katrina couldn't not explain. Even though she had skirted around it before, if she was going reject a simple offer of walking to the tube station, then she had to explain why. Especially in regards to how brash she had acted with people in the past.

"Right. I'll see you tomorrow, Jenkins." Daniel slowly turned and walked out of her office, giving her one quick glance back in the process.

As soon as he was gone, Katrina let out a long breath. That could have gone better – the entire day could have gone better – but she wanted to keep him away. She wanted to keep _all_ of them away, but she knew that Daniel wouldn't say anything. She hoped things would go back to normal the next day; it was preferable to have him be irritating as hell instead of going soft on her.

When she knew a significant amount of time had passed to the point she wouldn't run into him, Katrina made her way to Westminster tube station and hopped on one of the last tubes that would stop at Baker Street.

She didn't even change into something more comfortable, she just kicked off her shoes and removed her coat before heading straight for the packet of cigarettes under the skull. She then found the lighter in the desk, as ever. Cracking a window open and staring down onto the street below, she lit the cigarette and began to puff away. It was always so empty down there at this time of night in the middle of the week. Usually it would be a bit busier, but Baker Street always had its days where there was a complete lull in activity and it may as well have been silent.

Katrina didn't like it when Baker Street was silent. 221B was silent enough without there being arguments about a foot being left in the bathtub or eyeballs in the microwave, the entire street reflecting atmosphere of her own home was far too much.

Eventually she went to bed. After two more cigarettes. It had become a small vice of hers whenever she wasn't engaging in sex. It was stupid, really, but it was something. She promised herself she give herself until June and then she'd give up. Or give up by June. Katrina couldn't remember what she had decided on that front.

She woke up to a text from Mycroft telling her not to come into work for the next two weeks.

The sound that Katrina made didn't seem entirely human, and she had to resist the urge to throw her phone across the room. What was she going to do for two weeks? Mycroft had some right to do that, yes, but he also clearly didn't believe that she could look after herself and still go to work so in that sense, he had no right to make her stay home.

Everything about this was ridiculous, and quite frankly, she wanted it to stop.

Katrina got out of bed and wondered how much damage she could do via her own computer to Mycroft, but then promptly decided against it because that really would give him a reason to tell her not to come into work. The one he had already was thin at best.

When getting showered and dressed, she considered going down to see Mrs Hudson, but realised she'd probably worry the woman if she wasn't at work. As far as Mrs Hudson was concerned, Katrina was doing perfectly fine and did not have any trouble in Germany whatsoever. She'd just have to quietly keep herself occupied for the time being.

Her phone buzzed on her bedside table again.

 _There's a car coming to pick you up.  
_ _I still recommend you follow my advice from yesterday._

 _-M_

She made a face and typed out a quick reply.

 _No thank you.  
_ _-KJ_

There was no response back from Mycroft, and Katrina was satisfied. If he didn't want her at work for two weeks, he could at least do her a favour and not interfere with her home life too. As much as she did like Mycroft, he always had to be right. She wasn't going to allow him that – not this time.

So much for him not sticking his nose where it wasn't meant to go.

* * *

Not much happened in those two weeks.

Katrina frequented nearby coffee shops quite a lot as a way of getting out of the flat. It seemed to be a stereotypical Londoner thing, but it was quite satisfying to do nonetheless. She occasionally spoke to Mrs Hudson, but for the most part kept to herself. She slept a lot

When she finally went back to work, the first thing Katrina did was storm into Mycroft's office on that Monday morning and sit down opposite him.

"Tea?" she asked him, a cocky look on her face.

"I understand you're not impressed–"

"I'm more than that, I'm fuming. Not sure you'd get that, but continue."

"It was better for you."

"You could have asked me instead of _tell me_ like I was being some petulant child." She really had to resist the urge to pout when saying that.

"Perhaps, but you might not have actually gone through with it."

"You should be thankful I went thought with this one. I didn't particularly want to, but I did it just so you'd stay off my back," she pointed out to him. "Besides, coffee shops are quite nice in London."

"Glad you found a hobby."

"Can we forget this ever happened?"

"Yes. We won't speak of it again. You can go if you'd like, or was the tea a serious offer?" he questioned.

"Not sure. If you want tea, go for it."

"I'm fine for now," Mycroft said. Katrina nodded and he was silent for a moment, before bringing up something else. "Daniel told me about the conversation you two had."

She groaned. "I was hoping he wouldn't."

"He was–"

"I swear to god, if you were _paid_ to say the word 'concerned' you'd be _really_ rich right now."

He cleared his throat. "All the same, you did frighten him a little."

"Good." Katrina stood up. "I'd rather have that than him be my friend any day of the week – wouldn't you agree?"

She didn't wait for his answer and left.

Mycroft couldn't help but silently agree with her on that one. Daniel was a bit much, sometimes, always asserting his ego and being rude for the sake of being rude. It sometimes made Mycroft question why he hired the man in the first place. Oh well.

* * *

 **Filler chapter of sorts, I guess. Took a while to write because I got distracted by job things, uni things, and PS4 things. Although admittedly I did do a bulk of the writing in the past couple of days when I had my PS4 on. Woops.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	9. Consumed

"God, I could use a shot of whisky in the tea right now. Or scotch. Just something strong, and alcoholic."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. "I don't usually condone alcoholism–"

Katrina pulled a face. "I'm not an alcoholic. If I were an alcoholic, would I be working here? No. I'd be holed up at Baker Street wishing my life away."

"Fine. I'll allow it." Scowling, Mycroft stood up and went to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room where he pulled a hip flask from it. He sat back down and poured some into Katrina's tea, was about to put the cap on it, when he decided that he wanted some too. He didn't put as much in his own cup as he did Katrina's. Then he finally put the cap back on the flask and set it down on the desk.

She chuckled as Mycroft happily sipped on his tea. "I'm impressed. Didn't think you'd _actually_ do it."

"It's your birthday, Katrina, I'll make an exception just this once."

Katrina faltered for a moment he mentioned that. She completely forgotten about the day herself; she'd been more concerned about the fact it had been one year since Sherlock had jumped from the top of St Bart's. Mycroft noticed the look on her face and immediately understood what was going through her head.

"It's been a year," he commented in a casual manner. "It's gone by so quickly."

"Yeah..." Katrina's brow furrowed. "It's weird because I – I hate to say it, but I think about it – _him_ – less and less every day. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing… it just happened. It's just how things went." At that point, Katrina decided to gulp down her alcohol-laced tea very quickly. She winced and made a slightly inhuman noise. "That burned. Oh god." Her voice was now hoarse and her eyes were watering. "How strong is that stuff?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but certainly not as strong as I thought." He took another rather dainty sip from the cup. "I don't have enough in here to burn my throat anyway, and I _certainly_ don't drink tea in that ghastly manner."

"I need it. Leave me be. I have work to do." Katrina rose from her seat and swayed a little bit. "Woah. It's lunch time, right?"

"It's mid-afternoon, lunch was three hours ago. Did you not eat?"

"May have forgotten…" Katrina admitted, no longer swaying but still feeling the alcohol – it had probably been something along the lines of port or scotch; something very strong, at least. As long as it hadn't been absinthe… although Katrina doubted Mycroft would own that. She shrugged. "I've been busy today, is that a crime?"

"My best worker needs to eat. Off you pop now, and don't stumble on your way out."

"Give me some credit..." she muttered in response as she made her way out of the office and back towards her own. Katrina thought it would be a good idea to have some food, but decided she could ride it out until home time. She wasn't working late anymore, so she actually went home at a normal time.

The day passed as normally as it would; no major incidents happened, and Katrina was thankful for that because by the time it came around to half past six, she was absolutely starving.

It was her birthday, and _that_ anniversary, she might as well go out for dinner. She wondered if it could be considered sad to go out to dinner alone on her birthday, but concluded it didn't really matter. Katrina could do as she pleased. It wasn't uncommon to spot a Londoner dining alone, so she didn't exactly care.

Katrina ended up walking to Regent Street (it had been a fifteen to twenty minute walk from Westminster at best) and stopping off at an Italian style cafe/restaurant. It was a little on the expensive side, but that didn't matter. This was a pick-me-up, a treat for herself; she deserved it after a very strange year indeed.

She took her time with her meal, trying to savour it for as long as possible – the food was too good to not eat slowly. At one point Katrina was compelled to stay out for as long as possible – she didn't know why she was dreading returning to Baker Street, but perhaps it was because all she would do was remember what life really used to be like there. When she was thinking about that, her phone buzzed and she saw a generic "happy birthday" text message from her sister. She rolled her eyes, asked to pay the bill, and left as soon as that was done.

It was barely eight o'clock and the sun was just about setting now, so Katrian decided to take a quick detour to a flower shop and then to the graveyard. It only felt right to do that, and it was like she was on automatic because she was in front of Sherlock's headstone within no time at all despite the fact that she hadn't been there in months, oddly enough. She laid the flowers down.

"Well, here's me being a massive fucking sap," Katrina started off, "But I'm not going to give you pretty words or a speech of sorts. It's been a year, I've kind of moved on – I kind of haven't – I have a nice job and it's also my birthday." She shrugged, not particularly caring how cynical she sounded. "You might find it interesting that I slept with Sebastian Moran, but hey – everyone was probably expecting that."

She awkwardly patted the gravestone and stood up. "Not heard from John either," Katrina allowed herself to laugh at that – she could find it funny now. "Then again, I don't really care how he's doing." She shrugged again, and frowned for a moment. "I think that's all I have to say. Yeah… I'm good for now. Should probably visit again sometime, yeah?"

With that, Katrina turned on her heel and made to leave. The cynicism that had been present in her voice – well, all that was gone. She allowed a tear or two to fall; the cynicism was nothing but a defense, and her entire posture slumped as she left the graveyard. On her way out, she stopped for a moment and wondered if karma was out to get her: John Watson was on his way in.

They stared at each other – they were a good ten metres from each other – and said nothing. They appeared to both be in some form of shock that they had managed to run into each other.

John swallowed hard, she noticed, and he went to go say something. Katrina merely gave him a nod and sped off in the opposite direction to where he had come from. Out of all the people she could have even _glimpsed_ today, it had to have been him.

It was nearing nine o'clock now, and she wanted to go home and collapse in the blue armchair for a little while; shame it would take about another forty five minutes to even get home _and_ there was still the matter of Mrs Hudson dropping by, if she decided to.

Katrina was right on that front. Not five minutes after she had settled down, the sweet landlady came knocking on her door holding an envelope.

"You alright, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked Katrina after she had been granted entrance. The other woman sighed, running a hand through her messy curls.

"I'm okay. You?"

"Oh, I'm fine – a little sad today, obviously – but I'm fine." Mrs Hudson approached Katrina with a smile on her face. "This came for you after you left for work, it seems to have gone all around the world..."

Quirking an eyebrow, Katrina carefully took the envelope from Mrs Hudson and was surprised to see an array of different stamps all over it. The confusion must have been obvious on her face, because Mrs Hudson started talking again.

"I don't know who sent it, if I'm honest, but they must have liked you to get it here for this exact date." She paused a moment. "I have some cake downstairs, if you'd like."

Katrina shook her head. "No thanks, Mrs Hudson. I'm alright, but thank you for the offer anyway."

"I'll leave you to it, then."

Katrina barely heard the other woman leave, because she was just staring down at the envelope in her hands. She had a very funny feeling she knew who this was from, and it was incredibly beyond her as to why it even existed, or even got here in the first place.

Nevertheless, she opened the envelope with slightly shaky fingers. It was a letter, albeit a very short one:

 _Katrina,_

 _I know you're not one for celebrating the occasion at all, but happy birthday._

 _I'm sorry this had to happen, and I sincerely hope this gets to you correctly._

 _It was a bit of a pain to sort out, so if this didn't get to you by June 12th 2012, then my efforts were wasted and a total stranger is reading this._

 _Sherlock._

"Oh boy..." she breathed. "Oh my god." Tears started to well up in her eyes and she hastily wiped them away, clutching the note to her chest quite desperately.

Everything seemed to come flooding back to her in that one moment, and Katrina wasn't sure how to deal with it. She simply sat in the blue armchair in silence, her eyes wide and face somehow remaining more thoughtful than anything. It was the truth that she had been thinking about him less and less everyday, but that feeling – that feeling of love – was still there, somewhere deep inside of her. Katrina was just clever enough not to let it consume her. She didn't like being consumed by something, and she refused to let _anything_ consume her like that again (for she was aware that it had happened for a short time).

She sank deeper into the chair, letting out a gentle sigh. Perhaps for this moment she could let herself be consumed by it again. Katrina shut her eyes and pictured his face, trying to remember every single minute detail beyond the cheekbones, beyond the steely and icy blue eyes, beyond the dark curls that she once had the honour of running her fingers through…

" _Stop dreaming of me..."_

" _I haven't for a while so give me this much, alright?" Katrina snapped back at him. They were both lying on the bed in 221B, staring up at the ceiling and keeping distance from each other. A quick glance to her left told her that Sherlock was in that purple shirt she really liked on him._

" _Why now?"_

" _It's been a year. Exactly a year so let me… let me have this..."_

" _This is not how you're meant to use a mind palace." His voice was oddly close to her ear, and Katrina knew that if she turned to face him then she would most likely end up kissing him. Kissing a figment of her imagination; a slightly more idealised version of Sherlock._

" _My mind palace, my rules. Besides, I don't really work on it that often. Maybe one day it'll be used for rational thought, but not right now. That's too much effort right now."_

 _He chuckled. "Nothing is too much effort for you."_

" _I wanted to hear your voice."_

" _Can you even remember what I really sound like?"_

 _That made Katrina falter for a moment, and she sat up so that his breath could no longer be warm on her ear; she was no longer in such close proximity to him. "Don't," she said softly. "This is why I do this – so I can try."_

" _You wanted to forget me. You thought about me less and less. That's… quite unlike you."_

" _I know… I know..."_

 _She felt the weight on the bed shift, and soon enough Sherlock was sitting next to her. His hand was resting lightly – very lightly – on the small of her back._

" _That's quite a me thing to do."_

" _Yeah. I'm aware. I feel like I should be testing how far I can go with that… being like you. I did it once before – on the spot – but I reckon I could do it again if I actually tried."_

" _You don't want to be like me. Nobody does."_

 _Katrina turned to face Sherlock to see him giving her a rather unimpressed look. "Maybe I do; maybe I want to be stoic and icy because then it might help with… with everything I feel. It would be easier to bury it sometimes."_

" _You've been doing a relatively okay job that past few months, I'll give you that," he paused for a moment. "Time to stop dreaming, Katrina, otherwise you'll find yourself_ consumed _again."_

" _I know," she said again. "I know..."_

Katrina's eyes opened slowly, and she found she her arms had slacked in her sleep state meaning the letter had dropped into her lap.

At least the tears had stopped.

All she knew was that she didn't want to do that again.

* * *

 **Short chapter, I know, but uni life has been hectic as ever so there was a lack of motivation/inspiration. Next chapter should be longer and back to Sherlock, though!**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL**


	10. The Pretender

Naturally, Sherlock had made sure he had been filled in on the Berlin situation he'd been dropped from. Even though Mycroft had explained that it had been straightforward, the reality was that it really hadn't been. Sherlock wasn't sure about how he felt with Katrina going in and then subsequently getting herself into _more_ trouble. At least Moran had been about, otherwise he didn't know what could have happened to her.

He wasn't sure how much he cared about that. There was some form of worry there, yes, but just how much…? He hadn't really thought about her for a couple of months – not since Irene had visited – and she had completely slipped his mind. A good thing, when he _did_ think about it, because there wasn't time for sentimentality.

Eventually, the woman drifted from his mind. All was well and he was able to fully concentrate on the task at hand again. Sherlock went to all sorts of spots in the world – America, Bulgaria, Austria, Japan – and he quickly dissolved the network. There were a few left that remained scattered, and for the time being they were absolutely inconsequential to anything that was going on. So he went back to what he was best at: solving crimes. Murder mysteries. Everything he had focused his life on up until his little game with Moriarty.

Then something brought his attention back to her existence. It had been a year since he had jumped from the roof of St Bart's. For a brief moment – while he _had_ a moment of respite – the memory flitted into his mind; the memory of _her_ face right before he jumped, and the sound of John's voice right before he tossed away his phone (only to get himself a new one a few days later). He wasn't sure how the memories made him feel – perhaps nothing. Maybe a tinge of regret that he couldn't tell them his plan. Either way… it had all worked out for the better. Everything had been dealt with as quickly as he possibly could – although in Sherlock's mind, it wasn't quick enough.

So the memory just simply floated away, off into the ether, it bothered him no longer. As soon as it had popped into his head, it was gone.

Of course, the only annoying matter is that he still had Mycroft on his back. It was a shame that Sherlock had had to include him in the plan… he didn't understand why Mycroft was so obsessed with keeping tabs on him, but that was a thing. An annoying thing, to be exact. It weren't as if he'd go galavanting off and proclaiming himself "not dead!" to the world. There was really no going back now.

He was quite content with life, despite the whole 'being in the shadows' thing. It wasn't as bad as one would expect it to be. Naturally that meant he became irate when he received a phone call from _brother dear_ one sunny August morning in… admittedly, he'd lost track of where he was by this point.

"How desperate are you?" Sherlock pretty much spat down the phone.

" _We have an issue."_

"It's the only time you ever call me – of _course_ there's an issue." He was smoking a cigarette too, and he flicked it to rid it of the burnt end. "Go on then. Try and seduce me."

" _I'm not trying to do that – you need to stay off radar."_

"Then why are you telling me about this?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took a puff.

" _Merely trying to keep you connected with the rest of the world,"_ Mycroft's voice was so dry, it felt like sandpaper to Sherlock's ears. _"Besides, it's partially relevant to what you're doing anyway."_

"Partially relevant how?" He raised an eyebrow; he couldn't deny his curiosity.

" _I may have… lied to my employees and now I have new information on Alexandra Myers."_

Sherlock made a face. "Not that relevant. Try harder."

" _We may have found out that she most definitely has someone employing her."_

Now that was enough to make Sherlock stop and think for a moment. "I'm not coming back to London," he finally said. "If you're worried about her popping up again–"

" _I'm not–"_

"You know full well it's impossible for us to lie to each other, Mycroft. Don't play with me."

" _The concerns aren't mine, but rather Scotland Yard's."_

"Let me guess… there's a copy cat, isn't there?"

" _It might not be."_

"And you berate me for not thinking hard enough," Sherlock sighed. "I'm going to hang up now, and you're not going to call again. Tell Lestrade it's a copy cat."

" _Stop smoking those ghastly things."_

"Never. Goodbye, Mycroft." After that, Sherlock hung up on his brother. Pinching the bridge of his nose for a few seconds, Sherlock sunk further into his seat. Of all the things he had to be called up about, it was _that._ She wasn't relevant to anything he was doing. Well – perhaps in a way she was… when had he last heard of her?

Oh yes. Last year. During the time that Moriarty was so intent on destroying his reputation. Goodness, she really liked to pop up everywhere. Other than that, it would have been made far more obvious that she was out and about again. Although Sherlock couldn't fault Mycroft for doing a bit of digging, so maybe it was time he did some himself. After all, his most recent case had come to a close. He needed something to entertain himself with for a little while.

Except of course, she was part of another life. Myers shouldn't be any of his concern right now, but he needed _something_ to do. Anything. Could he be tempted with the past…?

 _No._ He mentally slapped himself. It needed to stay buried. Mycroft was just getting inside his head now, and that wasn't what Sherlock wanted. Although that did mean Mycroft had gotten what _he_ wanted – to mess with his baby brother. The childish feud was never going to end, was it?

Somehow, a seed of doubt had been planted in his mind. How long could he keep this up? 'This' being the hiding, the running, going with the east wind that Mycroft used to taunt him about as a child. It had eaten him whole already, hadn't it? He was stuck in the life of running and hiding, hiding and running, but still there was something there that made him want to go home.

 _Home._ He hadn't really used that word in some time. Sherlock had no home now. London had always been his home but he'd had to leave that behind. He had to admit that it had been easy at first, but now… now, _over a whole year later,_ he wanted to go back home. And it was all Mycroft's fault. If his irritating brother hadn't kept calling him, he wouldn't have been reminded of what he had lost – what he had left behind.

Just as easily he had slipped into that thought process, Sherlock slipped out of it just as easily. It took a little less than fifteen seconds to get back into his machine mindset, and he was quite content sitting there and finishing off his cigarette.

He didn't have anything urgent to attend to, after all.

Mycroft's bait had failed.

* * *

Sherlock was in denial.

Despite getting out of the mindset of wanting to go back to London, the cigarette numbers increased. He'd taken to seeking out drug dealers. Weed had only been good for a few weeks or so before he had been tempted by heroin. That was… well… he'd forgotten what _those_ highs were like.

More often than not, Sherlock would find himself on the floor after those instances, after becoming too lost in his own little world. He only took small doses each time, but he forgot how powerful it could be. How the room could become so hazy, how nothing looked entirely real, and how dizzy he could get – it was a good dizziness. It meant that it was working.

A few hours of the day (or night, it really depended) would slip by smoothly and quickly, just like he wanted it to.

What with Moriarty's network being pretty much completely gone bar a few (for instance, Sebastian Moran, not that he really counted), Sherlock had very little to do. Most of the places he would travel to were obscenely mundane, and most 'cases' would always prove to be so straightforward that even Lestrade could have solved them in a heartbeat.

His mind was in a state of stagnation; his heart yearned for London.

To him, the only solution at this point _was_ drugs, because at least they passed the time and prevented his days from being as slow as they could have been. He couldn't even be out in public for prolonged amounts of time in case somebody ended up recognising him.

Perhaps he was developing some form of cabin fever.

No, he was far too above everyone else to get that…

Although he couldn't deny he felt somewhat insane.

Gosh, everything was so conflicting, wasn't it?

He wondered when he might start hallucinating. As soon as that happened, he'd clean up his act and move on. That didn't take long to set in, apparently.

Him being slowly driven insane from being indoors for a majority of the time mixed with heroin usage was not a good combination, it seemed.

Lying on the floor and staring up at the ceiling of the dodgy little flat he'd been living in for the time being, Sherlock thought he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Glancing to his left, he noticed someone sitting on the chair in the corner. Their details were blurred at first, but when they stood up and moved closer, Sherlock's heart started racing.

"Well, well, well..." drawled Moriarty. "It only took a year for you to crack..."

"Not you… anyone but _you,_ " Sherlock hissed in response. Moriarty squatted down next to him, tilting his head to the side in curiosity.

"How're you going to clean up your act _this_ time, Sherly? Big brother won't be too impressed now, will he?" He raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock grunted. No, Mycroft wouldn't be impressed in the slightest, but Sherlock didn't give a bloody damn about Mycroft right now.

Right now, he just needed to get rid of Moriarty somehow, except he was partially incapacitated by the heroin coursing through his veins. There was no way he could get off the floor for a little while yet.

Annoyed that he hadn't answered, Moriarty carried on talking.

"How much have you had?" he asked.

"Enough," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He turned to look straight back up at the ceiling because that view was considerably nicer than looking at Moriarty. He didn't think he'd see that man's face ever again, but there he was.

"If you had anymore, would you die?"

Of course that question had to come next. Of _course_ it did.

"Potentially." It was a half lie. Sherlock knew that if he had anymore right at this current moment in time, he could overdose and die if he didn't get medical help.

"Would you do it?" Now he was just being taunting. He was doing it on purpose.

Sherlock wasn't having any of this. He didn't want to think about death, that was exactly why he did this in the first place. Except, he hadn't expected to see Moriarty come to life from the inner depths of his mind. "Stop this."

"But would you though? We can carry on our little game in the after life, if you wanted to..."

After risking looking at his nemesis, Sherlock's stomach churned a small amount upon seeing the shark grin – oh, that shark grin, how he had _not_ missed that – on Moriarty's face.

"No such thing as the after life," was what he finally said. He'd never believed in it anyway, and if there was an after life, the one with Moriarty in it would be Hell, anyway.

"Oh, of course!" Moriarty chuckled. "Because you're already god."

That comment always came about _somewhere._ It was worse coming from him though. If there was one thing, it was that hearing a certain phrase from the one person you never wanted to hear it from.

"I am… not..." Sherlock breathed.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "You pretend to be. Don't deny it. Don't deny that like _everything else_ in your life, Sherlock."

"I'm _not_ denying _anything!_ " Who was he kidding? He was denying _so much_ to himself at the moment. He was living in denial and there was no escaping from it, no matter how hard he tried. Usually it was a simple switch, but not anymore. He needed to get that switch back.

 _Gosh, everything was so conflicting, wasn't it?_

"Oh, yes you are. You're denying the fact you think you're a god, you're denying the fact you miss your old life – and you've missed it for _longer_ than you realise. Stop pretending, Sherlock. It never does you any good."

He knew there was truth behind Moriarty's words – truth behind _his_ words, because this Moriarty was just a part of his mind. A part of his mind that he very, _very_ rarely ventured near. It was too dark, and full of terrors that he never wanted to relive.

"Go… away..." Sherlock suddenly felt tired. That had never happened before. Perhaps the encounter he was experiencing right now was the cause of it – that would make sense.

"I can't go away when I'm stuck inside your head, Sherly-boy. I won't ever leave..."

Except he did just that. Sighing in disappointment, Moriarty rose from his position on the floor and backed away into the corner where he had started out. Sherlock rolled over onto his front – almost in relief – and slowly but surely moved himself over to that particular chair, all logic gone from his mind as if to check that Moriarty was definitely gone. He was. There was no need to check. He knew it was all inside his head regardless.

Never the less, Sherlock pulled himself up into the chair and sank into it, sighing in relief.

Maybe that was the kick he needed to stop doing this.

Maybe that was the kick he needed to get on with life again.

* * *

 **I'm so lame. I just really wanna get to Sherlock being back in London, I hate writing the chapters where they're all apart, I'm not gonna lie haha.**

 **Hope this was enjoyable though!**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	11. The Dark Web

"I need you to look into something," Mycroft said as he dumped a truck load of files onto Katrina's desk one morning. She hadn't exactly looked awake, but the sound of a heavy-ish weight slamming onto her desk had been enough to jolt her out of a stupor.

She sighed when she looked at the files. "Why are these not accessible on the computer?" Katrina then asked, picking up a mug and taking a sip from it. Judging by the expression of disgust she pulled, her tea had gone cold.

"They're from five years ago."

"Right, that makes sense," she replied sarcastically. "What do you want me to do with them? Who's the lucky person whose secrets get found out by me today?"

Mycroft folded his arms, tapping his finger impatiently on his elbow after he did so. "I get the sense that you're not taking this seriously, Miss Jenkins, and I would advise you _to_ start taking it seriously."

"Well, _Mr Holmes,_ who's the lucky person whose secrets get found out by me today?" Katrina repeated with a sickening smile on her face.

He breathed in slowly, then returned a dry smile. "Someone we've had… dealings with."

Katrina sank back in her chair. "Are you telling me you want me to look into Alexandra Myers?"

"Yes. Recently there were some copy cat crimes and so it had me wondering whether or not someone's trying to get _her_ attention," Mycroft admitted, "And naturally I'm concerned. I had a read through of those myself and there was some concerning activity."

"Like what?"

"You're aware of the dark web, yes?"

The woman blanched and didn't say anything in response, merely picking up one of the top files and starting to flick through it in a demure way. Mycroft frowned at her and leaned down, trying to catch her eye. She realised this and hid her entire face behind the file instead.

"Katrina..."

"I… might know a thing or… two… or five about the dark web," she squeaked out in a very high pitched manner. Mycroft seemed shocked by her change in voice, and he straightened up.

"You've never done that before."

"Done what?"

" _That._ With your voice. You know, it occurs to me that there are probably some omissions on _your_ file that I could have added in if you don't tell me what they are."

The silence that fell between them caused Katrina to glance up momentarily.

"Yes, I'm aware that sounded more weird than it should have done. You know what I mean."

"You'll find out what I'm hiding if I don't tell you?"

"Precisely." Another smile. "Now… tell me what you did when you came into contact with the dark web."

* * *

 _ **Sometime in 2005…**_

 _Katrina's phone buzzed on the table next to her. She picked it up and read the text – she was late. Again. Time passed too quickly in this god damn café while she was writing, and generally just taking time out from a mundane life. She downed the last of her tea and packed up her things into her backpack._

 _She made a beeline out of the place, found her bike, unlocked it from the rack and hopped on it, speeding off down the road as fast she she possibly could. After making it down the main high street in record time, she cut down an alley way and round the back of a retail store to a wooden gate – a wooden gate that opened up to some stairs that led to the small flat she rented with a couple of friends._

 _She locked her bike to the lamp post opposite and made her way up the stairs, letting herself into the tiny flat. It wasn't much, but it was cheap and she liked it enough._

" _You took your time," her flat mate Lewie said as he strolled into the living room, ruffling his already messy hair._

" _Yeah, well, I was busy writing your code." Katrina tossed the notebook at him. He caught it, went over to the computer in the corner and sat down, beginning to type it up into a more accessible format._

" _Thanks," he muttered._

" _You finish it, Kat?" Annie asked as she walked in, adjusting her glasses._

 _Katrina sighed, "Yes, of course I did! Also, I should point out that this is all very… illegal."_

" _Yeah, but because of a fucking coin flip, I ended up sharing a room with that," Annie pointed at Lewie, who rolled his eyes and shook his head, "While you got your own room. It's been a year. I think it's time we get some money and move somewhere in this town that has three bedrooms and a bathroom we can move around in."_

" _Fine. You have a point. Not my fault you're crap at coin tosses."_

" _How long will this take?"_

" _Well, given the speed of the internet, probably a couple of hours most," Lewie told them. "God, I can't wait for the day it all speeds up..."_

 _For the next half an hour, Katrina and Annie watched with bated breath as Lewie began trying to get onto the somewhat unreliable internet – specifically, the dark web. Although, when he got onto it, Lewie stopped._

" _I'm concerned."_

" _Lewie..." Annie warned. "We need the money."_

 _He breathed in sharply through his nose. "Fine… fine..."_

 _After a few more minutes, they were on an auction site for the code they were going to sell. Code that enabled people to get past most firewalls – very, very important firewalls, at that too. It was the only place they could sell it, since everyone on there was out doing bad stuff anyway._

 _Before they even listed it, he finished typing the rest of it up and then off they went._

 _For some reason, the room was tense. Katrina ended up sitting on the middle of the floor, trying not to rock back and forth, while Annie was upright on the sofa, her right leg jittering for what seemed like a thousand times a second._

 _Then finally, after what seemed like forever…_

" _Oh my god," Lewie breathed._

 _The girls jumped up and over to him in an instant, and he merely pointed out the sum of money that was being offered for it._

" _Do it," Katrina said, while Annie nodded quickly in agreement. "Just… be careful."_

" _'Be careful,' you say, as I sell something on the dark web..." Lewie responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but he ended the auction anyway._

" _Get rich quick: the nerd way."_

" _Don't forget it's also the illegal way, too."_

* * *

Katrina stopped for a moment, waiting for Mycroft's reaction. He appeared to be deep in thought, which only caused her to get more and more nervous by the minute. Eventually Mycroft folded his arms.

"You… essentially… enabled a stranger on the internet to potentially hack the government?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I was broke, okay!" Katrina held up her hands in surrender. "And we found out about the dark web and it seemed like a good idea at the time… we may have gotten way too addicted to finding out what else we do or find on there..." She lowered her hands back into her lap, not sure if she should continue on with the story.

"What did you find?"

"Do you know how bad it gets on there? Besides selling drugs – prescription or otherwise – and selling weapons, codes, _body parts!_ Do you _know_ , Mycroft?"

"Surprisingly enough, the dark web has never been of interest to me so I only learned the basics."

"Well..." Katrina shifted uncomfortable in her seat. "People do some weird shit on the dark web. Creepy shit. It's not good."

Mycroft was near enough scowling at her. "Tell me."

* * *

 _A few weeks after receiving their money and sorting out where they would next move to, the three young adults still found themselves searching in the dark web. They all had an odd fascination with it, Lewie more than most, despite his brief concerns._

" _What I want to know is if you can find painkillers for one pence," Katrina laughed one evening. It had gotten to a point where they weren't even bothering with weird, illegal stuff, and were merely trying to find out how cheap things were – everything was cheaper on the dark web._

 _Lewie did a few searches. "Well, you can get them for five pence but that's about it. Nothing cheaper than that."_

" _Okay, um, what's something you've really wanted but it's too expensive for you to buy normally?"_

" _Flights to Los Angeles," Annie said. The other two gave her looks of disbelief. "What?" she protested. "It's a valid answer."_

" _I don't think you can buy flights for cheap on the dark web, that's not quite how it works..." Lewie frowned, going through the usual process on the search engine. He rolled his eyes when he saw what came up. "Although you can buy someone else's ticket and their identity. Right. Of course."_

" _How much for it?"_

 _He turned back to face the girl and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You sound like you're considering it..."_

" _No! Of course not! I just want to know."_

" _Two hundred pounds."_

" _And you get a person's identity? You know what, I'm calling that a bargain," Katrina concluded, getting up from her seat and going to the kitchen. Even though it was getting on a bit, she felt she could use a cup of tea so she flipped on the kettle and sorted out her teabag and sugar as she liked it in her favourite mug._

 _Leaning against the counter, her fingers tapped in a fast paced rhythm as thoughts about what they were currently obsessed with swam through her mind. How long would it be until they ended up getting caught? What if they found something truly horrifying? Would they ever stop using the dark web? They were all young. They didn't need to get addicted to this, except it was heading that way._

 _The kettle went off, making Katrina jump. Just as she picked up her mug, Annie screamed and it slipped from her grasp in shock._

 _It didn't matter that it had smashed on the floor, because she had run back into the living room anyway to see what had frightened her friend. She skidded to a halt. The sight before her wasn't pretty, and it made her glad that the speakers on the computer were off._

 _Annie was curled up on the sofa, her body wracked with dry sobs, while Lewie was trying not to look at what was on the screen._

 _So Katrina finally came to look at the screen, horror crossing her face. Her friends had found a live stream of a man being tortured in perhaps the most disturbing, most violent ways anyone could possibly imagine. The implementor had a mask over his face, meaning his identity was unknown. Regardless, it was hard to see the face of the man in pain, and it made Katrina wonder whether or not he had much of a face left._

 _The horror was replaced by some odd sort of fascination, and she tilted her head to the side slightly. This was how bad it could get out there. This was the most truly horrifying thing that they could find. The dark web was really named for what it was – dark. She wondered if maybe – if they became properly addicted – they would end up like that. Torture for entertainment. She took note of a chat bar down the side of it, and a money total in the corner. Yep, definitely for entertainment._

 _She had to lick her lips after a few minutes, having not realised they had gone dry. There was no way they could end up like that. She wouldn't let it._

" _Turn it off."_

* * *

"You thought there were bad people out there, Mycroft. You thought that maybe Moriarty and Myers were possibly some of the worst you could find but that's not really how it is," Katrina then explained, having regained some sort of composure after a major bout of discomfort. "The dark web is a place for the both of them, yes, but they're not even the worst of humanity. That place is for the absolute worst out of all seven billion people in the world, and I think I realised that if you're doing something like selling code so someone can find out government secrets, then you're innocent. Innocent on the dark web anyway."

Mycroft was silent, and Katrina knew he was thinking things over. He had a very specific look on his face when he was considering all the possible options and their outcomes. Eventually he flattened out his suit and picked up the files from Katrina's desk, and she had to resist smiling about that.

"I feel this would be better off in someone else's hands. Who would you recommend? Perhaps Daniel?" A smirk tugged on Mycroft's lips, and Katrina let herself properly smile at him before letting out a light laugh.

"I know he's not the worst of humanity, but I think he could handle it. Thank you, Mycroft."

He nodded once before taking his leave, shutting the door behind him. Katrina let out a breath and relaxed in her seat, quite glad she could go on about her day as normal. Well – it was about as normal it could get without Daniel barging in some hours later not entirely happy.

"Okay, Jenkins, why did you let _me_ deal with the shitstorm that was a philosophy maniac?!" He slammed his hands down on her desk, his nostrils flared and his awful hair an even more god awful mess.

Katrina didn't let it faze her while and flipped through a paper, bored. "You didn't have the pleasure of meeting her," she muttered.

"What do you – that's beside the point!" Daniel moved away from the desk and began pacing up and down her office. "Do you know what she's done?"

"She fed people their own cats which really isn't news to me," Katrina sighed, and set down the paper. "Do you mind getting me a cup of tea? Might make your legs a bit more useful."

That stopped him in his tracks.

"Now that I have your attention: sit down, Smith, and tell me what you found out."

He glanced around the room. "There aren't any chairs."

"Well observed, now sit down in the middle of the floor and tell me what you found out," she told him, making her way round to the front of her desk so she could lean on it.

"She's killed a lot of people. In really horrible ways. And with an audience.'

For a moment, Katrina's blood ran cold, but she kept it together. "You didn't watch anything, did you? You didn't go anywhere… _unsavory_ , did you?"

Daniel shook his head. "There were only photos. It was from a couple of years ago, she only does weird philosophy crap now. But she doesn't do it on her own, she has someone helping her and giving her everything she needs. It just doesn't say who. It's a blank."

Katrina thought back to almost two years ago. "I can't remember if that was something we'd figured out, but it does make sense."

"We?" Daniel looked confused.

"Myself… Sherlock… and John."

The confusion dropped, and he looked more apologetic. "Sorry, I didn't mean–"

"If you start apologising, I swear to god I will actually make you make me a cup of tea."

"Right. Well, all those copycat killings recently were just some sort of fanatic, and I did some digging and found she's taken him under her wing. So it worked."

"Did you get a name?"

"John Clay. He's a bit of a nobody, but he likes to idolise serial killers by the looks of things." Daniel shrugged and rose from the floor. "That's all I managed to get."

"You can get out of my office then." Katrina made a shooing motion with her hands, and Daniel more or less stomped out. Then he came running back in.

"I almost forgot – someone dropped this at my desk. It's for you." He dug his hand into his back pocket and drew out an envelope, handing it to Katrina. "Dunno what it is."

He left without another word.

Curious, Katrina stared down at her name written on the envelope in neat cursive, before tearing into it without ripping the actual letter inside.

 _I know your secret._

That was it.

She licked her lips. They'd become dry. She licked them again. She should probably invest in some lip balm.

Heart pounding in her chest, Katrina bolted from her office and down the corridor, going down the path she knew so well that would lead her to Mycroft. She ignored Anthea's protests and barged into her friend's office, where he was apparently in the middle of a meeting with someone. That someone turned out to be the person she was least expecting.

"Miss Jenkins, there is such a thing as knocking," Magnussen said in that soft voice of his after turning around to see what all the commotion was. She glanced between him and Mycroft, noticing something off about the latter. "Funny you should be here, we were just talking about you."

"Really?" she replied breathlessly. "That's um… nice?"

"Oh, it is! I only came to sing your praises. Your security system has been working _wonders_ , my dear."

"Always good to have feedback," Katrina smiled oddly at him. "I'll come back later and talk to you Mycroft, it was just… urgent. But it's fine. I didn't mean to interrupt." Well, it wasn't fine, but it sure as hell had to be.

"Actually I was just leaving." Magnussen stood from the chair and buttoned up his jacket. "Would you be so kind as to walk me out, Miss Jenkins?"

"Of course," she nodded. Katrina let Magnussen leave the room first and as she went to close the door, she couldn't help but notice how worried Mycroft appeared to be. Regardless, Katrina didn't let it bother her too much otherwise Magnussen would definitely pick up on it.

While he was walking ahead, she quickly shoved the note inside her bra and hurried on up to him.

She felt like a scurrying rat next to him – he was rather graceful in his footsteps. There was nothing but silence between the two of them as they walked, but when they rounded a corner and away from any prying ears, Magnussen broke it.

"Did you receive my note?" he said it so quietly, so softly, that Katrina was certain she misheard him for a moment. Alas, she hadn't.

Magnussen took hold of her upper arm in quite a strong grip and pushed her against the wall.

"Well?"

Gulping, Katrina retrieved it from inside her bra with her trembling free hand and held it up. A gentle smile crossed Magnussen's face, and for some reason it managed to intimidate her. He was just a man. Why was she so intimidated by him?

"Good… good… now you kept hold tight of that, Miss Jenkins, to serve as a reminder that the actions of your past can have repercussions if you don't keep the right people happy." He came close enough to whisper in her ear, and his breath irritated her ear. "I know what happened in Berlin. I know who you shot. I know what you did when you were younger. I know who knows what you did and who doesn't."

Now that was why she was so intimidated by him. That was private information, and he _knew._ She couldn't say anything in response.

"That raspberry hair product doesn't suit you, Miss Jenkins, I would switch back to the coconut one if I were you."

Magnussen let go of her and stepped back.

"I'll see myself out."

And off he went.

When he was out of sight, Katrina let herself slide down the wall with tears now streaming freely down her face. Unbeknownst to her, Mycroft had quietly followed them and had heard the entire spectacle.

He stepped round the corner and Katrina looked up at him with startled doe eyes. He crouched down next to her, not sure what to do.

It was a good thing he knew exactly what to say – and it had the one hundred percent truth behind it.

"I won't let him hurt you. I won't promise it, because a promise against a man like him is hard to keep. But I will do everything I can to protect you."

* * *

 **THE PLOT THICKENS. Sort of.**

 **I'm getting back into writing all sorts of fanfic again, so expect more frequent updates I guess! I hope you all enjoyed this one, especially learning about Katrina's dodgy past. I think I've implied enough that she's had a bit of a weird life, so I figured I might as well finally show it to you all.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	12. Regression

She was erratic, but she was able to hide it from most people.

It was lucky that Katrina could shut herself away in her office and only have to talk to people if they really needed her for something, but everything was running smoothly for the time being. There were no national threats to worry about, so it meant she could avoid everyone as much as possible. They didn't see it as anything unusual, considering she didn't speak to anybody much anyway.

Tea with Mycroft was as normal as it could get over the next few weeks. There was an air awkwardness about it, like they didn't quite want to look each other in the eye and they forced out some pathetic talk about the weather. It wasn't up to their usual standards, to say the least. More often than not, Katrina wouldn't even drink her tea – she'd just fiddle with the cup on the saucer while Mycroft watched her every move, so to speak.

She wasn't sure if he was… _watching_ her outside of work, but it didn't feel like he was. It felt as if someone else was watching her instead. Observing her. Waiting for the right moment to ruin her life.

Her stroll from the tube station back to 221B at night was no longer casual, but rather fast paced. It did keep her warm as the weather got cooler, so she didn't have many complaints about that fact. Her sleep cycle became broken and restless – Katrina would take a few hours to fall asleep, wake up very early, and then sleep until her alarm went off. Some nights she got lucky and would sleep solidly, but that wasn't the case most of the time.

One evening after returning home from work, Katrina found herself staring at the skull on the mantelpiece.

She cocked her head to the side. "So what do you think? Am I gonna die in the next couple of years because of _Charles Augustus Magnussen?_ I think I am. Maybe. I dunno. He's not a good guy… he knows a lot about me – knows a lot about everyone, I'd imagine – and I'm not okay with that. I mean, I've only just gotten to terms with Mycroft knowing a fuck load of stuff about me, and that guy is my friend. Magnussen isn't. Do you see why I'm not feeling okay about this?"

The skull didn't say anything.

"Did you ever have a name? I think you should have a name. Something funny, something clever… something that Sherlock would hopefully approve of. Something like… Hamish."

Naturally, the skull _still_ didn't answer, and Katrina sighed.

"How the hell Sherlock ever thought aloud to you, I'll never understand. You can't even provide witty banter." On that note, she lifted it up and pulled out the packet of cigarettes that hid there. Once the skull was placed back in it's rightful place, she shook the pack at it. "Now these guys? Yeah, they're a lot cooler than you."

Stepping over the desk, Katrina opened the drawer and dug around the for lighter, making a content humming sound once she had found it. She took out a cigarette and lit it up, just as Mrs Hudson came into the room with some biscuits.

"Katrina dear, why didn't you tell me – oh!" The landlady looked quite shocked at the fact Katrina was on her own. "I thought you… had company..."

She felt like a deer caught in the headlights. "Uh – no. I don't really… I don't like having company?" _Although it'd do me good right now,_ she thought to herself. "I only really like talking to you and Mycroft." _And Irene, not that you've messaged her for a while._

Mrs Hudson was staring at the lit cigarette between Katrina's fingers, keeping her eye on it as the other woman brought it between her lips and took a puff. It burned down a little, and after she removed it from her mouth, she tapped the excess ash out the open window. Needless to say, Mrs Hudson wasn't massively pleased about that. "Well… would you like some company now?"

"No, I'm quite alright for the night Mrs Hudson," Katrina replied in an oddly cheery voice. "I have the skull."

There was a moment of silence as the pair of them thought about those words, and Katrina's eyes widened.

"Oh my god I was talking to the skull and I named it Hamish."

Mrs Hudson couldn't help but chuckle. "His name is Billy, dear."

Katrina mentally slapped herself. "Of course it is, damn it! Sorry," she added quickly on the end, remembering how Mrs Hudson never really liked outbursts of curses, no matter how minor they were. "I'm also sorry about the fact I seemed to be quite loud when talking to the skull – I disturbed your night. I shouldn't have done that."

"Oh! It was no trouble really. I'm just glad you're okay." Mrs Hudson beamed at her and left.

"Yeah… I'm peachy keen, Mrs Hudson," Katrina muttered, going over to shut the door. " _Haven't you people heard of closing the god damn door_?" she then quoted quietly under her breath.

She went and settled in the blue armchair, still smoking away. She didn't really have any elegant way of disposing of the ash now, so it was just dropping onto the floor, not that she cared.

Eventually she went to bed that night, and had one of those rare, easy sleeps. When she walked past Mycroft at work the next day, he immediately picked up on that.

"Katrina..." He had stopped and turned in her direction, so she turned back to face him. "Don't get addicted to smoking," he then said.

She scowled at him. "I can't believe you sometimes, honestly."

"This is me, after all." With that, off he went, leaving Katrina to go about her day as usual, but perhaps less erratically.

Not that that lasted.

Within the day she was back to being jittery and paranoid.

Soon enough, the cracks began to show.

Katrina began to snap at anybody who wasn't Mycroft or Anthea, and smoking became a bit of a habit. Not a massive one, but she never failed to have one cigarette at work during her lunch break. The only day she didn't do that was a Monday, but Mycroft knew she was doing it anyway. There was no hiding anything from him within his own workplace, and that was absolutely fair enough.

By the time November rolled around, Mycroft's concern for the woman was at an all time and she finally hit rock bottom. Again.

It was a Friday, and she had been properly on edge all day, except she hadn't snapped at anyone. No, Katrina had actually _locked_ her office door, and she didn't answer to anybody who needed her. At one point she heard several voices murmuring outside the door, but she ignored it for the most part and eventually went away.

At six o'clock on the dot, she unlocked the door and made a swift exit from work, not even bothering to stop and talk to people who tried to grab her attention. Her coat was billowing out behind her as she went.

Instead of taking the tube to Baker Street, she took one into Soho instead. There were better cocktails in Soho, and as sad as it was for her to go out drinking alone, Katrina felt she needed it. She was good at hiding being drunk, so it meant that she just kept on ordering drinks.

It was also a good thing she didn't wear heels, because by the time she left the one place she'd been in for the evening, she was stumbling on the street a little. Luckily enough, she could retain her balance. All the same, Katrina flagged down a taxi and asked to be taken to where Mycroft lived. Why she wanted to see the man now, she had no clue. She'd been avoiding him as much as she possibly could – there were a few unanswered texts from him sitting in her phone, and it meant the only time she spoke to him was their Monday tea time.

By the time they arrived at the closed security gates of the rather posh home that Mycroft lived in, Katrina became fully aware of her drunken state. She was suddenly terrified of having to walk up the drive way to the house, but all the same – she paid the taxi driver and proceeded to do just that. She couldn't find a smaller side gate to walk through, so ended up climbing up and falling over the security gate, hoping she hadn't set off some form of alarm.

She waited for a moment but nothing happened, so she proceeded to swagger up the driveway, glancing at her phone at one point. It was coming up to midnight. She'd be surprised if he was still awake.

Eventually she made it to the large front door and knocked four times with the brass knocker. Within a minute, Mycroft answered, still in his suit albeit without his jacket and his sleeves rolled up. When he saw Katrina leaning against the doorway he sighed.

"I don't think I'm doing too good..." she mumbled.

"You're not going to vomit on my doorstep, are you?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Come inside, then, since you made the effort."

Mycroft let Katrina pass inside and he closed the door behind her before taking the lead and showing her towards his office. Katrina barely had time to take in how rather grand it was since she spotted a rather cosy armchair on the side of the desk that wasn't Mycroft's, and she rushed to it the best she could.

She dropped her coat and bag to the ground, kicked off her shoes and got quite comfortable in the chair. Mycroft muttered something about her being like a child before going to sit in his chair, surveying the inebriated woman before speaking.

"What brings you here?"

"Dunno," she shrugged. "Didn't want to go home, I guess..."

"Why?"

She laughed with humour, and for quite some time too. Mycroft guessed that Katrina found the laugh amusing, considering the state she was in. "He's… probably watching me… like you do! But worse, and creepier."

"He won't do anything to you, Katrina," Mycroft told her in an even voice.

"Well, what if he does?! You can't even guarantee my safety… you can't… you can't… and you're the one who has the government at his disposal..." Katrina started fiddling with the hem of her skirt, and Mycroft swore that he felt his heart strings twinge for the first time in a long time.

He thought he'd seen it all with this woman: she took up a life with his brother and fell in love with him, was tortured by Moriarty, watched Sherlock jump off a roof, fell into a deep depression, came out of it, and now she was potentially worse off than he remembered her ever being. She'd probably gone through every single emotion – big and small – in the space of one and a half years, and Mycroft couldn't quite comprehend how she managed it.

Since he'd more or less shut him off from emotions, it felt strange to be feeling pity for Katrina. Pity that she'd had all this thrown at her. Nobody really deserved anything like that, although he supposed sometimes bad things did come around to people who had done bad things – he couldn't deny she'd done some bad things. Illegal things. Not that deserved for it to happen to her. There were worse people out there that he could think of that actually deserved bad things to happen to them.

Katrina was his friend, and Mycroft sometimes hated to admit that. He didn't have friends. The world was full of too many goldfish but she wasn't even that. She was beyond that like he was. Perhaps that's why they _were_ friends. And as her friend, he disliked seeing her in such a terrible state. He didn't like the fact she felt the need to smoke and get herself drunk in order to actually confess to the fact something was seriously wrong.

"I said I would _try_ and protect you. Believe me, I will," Mycroft paused, "You're my friend, Katrina..."

She looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes. "You've never said that before."

"Do not cry," he warned her. There was only so much he could deal with in one night that had anything to with the spectrum of human emotion, although Mycroft did know that she really couldn't help if she did bawl her eyes out. She was drunk, after all.

"Sorry," Katrina sniffed, holding back her tears the best she could.

"It's fine," his voice became softer.

"It's not though… I'm a thirty-two year old woman and I'm gonna be so hungover tomorrow morning..." she chuckled. Yes, definitely going through every emotion possible, it seemed. "Why does stuff like this keep happening, Mycroft? Why – why can't I just be… happy?"

"I'm afraid I don't have an answer to that, Katrina..." he mumbled, glancing at her to see that a more thoughtful look had settled on her face. Then suddenly, she was sitting on the edge of his desk, leaning towards him. Their faces were now inches apart, a factor that made Mycroft somewhat uncomfortable.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm attracted to intelligence," she whispered.

Mycroft looked her in the eye, still remaining calm. "I highly doubt that, Katrina. You were attracted to my brother, after all."

"Yes… but he's very intelligent. And his cheekbones… I can't remember what they look like." She seemed lost in a day dream. "Can we smoke cigarettes together? Or maybe you can let me have a cigar, so to speak."

Something clicked in Mycroft's head. "Katrina, if you are even thinking about trying to seduce me, please don't. It won't work. I have no romantic or sexual interest for anybody."

"You're not my type," she told him, but still didn't move any further back.

"You just said you were attracted to intelligence."

"Oh yeah..." Her alcohol addled brain was certainly causing her a few issues tonight.

"Katrina, you need to sleep." Mycroft stood up, and she finally went to move back to her armchair, except she managed to fall off the desk.

She groaned as Mycroft helped her up. "I think I might be sick."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "I expected as much." Precariously holding onto the woman, he guided her towards the nearest bathroom – which was just opposite his study – and more or less deposited her in front of the toilet. He stood in the doorway and folded his arms, disgust crossing his face as Katrina emptied the contents of her stomach.

About ten minutes later she was finished, so as she flushed the toilet and rinsed out her mouth in the sink, Mycroft went to the cupboard and pulled out a clean toothbrush to use and handed it to her. She mumbled a thank you and quickly brushed her teeth while he also found some painkillers for her.

"Up the stairs, second door on the right. It's a guest bedroom, and there should be spare clothes for you to sleep in. I'll bring your things and some water."

She seemed okay enough to head up there on her own, so Mycroft did exactly as he said he would and by the time he reached the room, Katrina was a t-shirt and some shorts, and getting into bed. He placed her belongings by the wardrobe, then brought the water and pain killers over to her, which she took gratefully.

Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. "Magnussen isn't going to try anything, you have to trust me on that."

"Right. I'll hold you to that." She set the water down on the bedside table. "I am… holding you to that."

"No, Katrina, you have to _trust_ me. Not hold me to my word, do you trust me?"

Katrina nodded, and settled into bed.

"Good night, Mycroft."

"Good night."

* * *

When Katrina woke up, her head was pounding which made her wince. She looked to her left and saw that her water had been topped up and the pack of pain killers were still there. Thanking Mycroft under her breath, she popped two of them and downed the glass of water.

Slowly she got out of bed, went over to her bag and pulled out her bag to check the time. It was eleven in the morning. Putting her phone away, Katrina then made her way downstairs with the empty glass. She didn't have to hunt for long to find the kitchen, because the smell of bacon led her there anyway.

Walking in, she found it odd to see Mycroft in more casual clothing and doing a fry up. Finally hearing the sizzling of bacon was enough to almost make her mouth water. Definitely not what she had been expecting. When he saw her come in, he glanced at this watch.

"Right on time."

"You knew when I was going to wake up?" Katrina scanned the room for somewhere to sit and spied a breakfast bar. Of course. Either way, a seat was a seat, so she headed there.

"Going from what you've told me about when you usually wake up on a weekend, I accounted for the fact a hangover would add to that and decided to time breakfast accordingly."

The sizzling sound stopped and a few minutes later, Mycroft set a plate and some cutlery in front of Katrina. It mainly consisted of bacon and sausages, and one fried egg.

"Huh," Katrina said as she stared down at it. "You know my hangover cure."

"For most it's always a fry up, but the ratios of what it is are different," Mycroft replied, sitting down next to her with a more balanced plate of the food he'd just cooked.

"Thanks, Mycroft, really." Katrina then promptly dug in. Bacon had never tasted so good.

"Like I said last night: you're my friend. And as your friend, I think I am within my right to… _suggest_ you go to therapy."

Katrina rolled her eyes. "I can't. There's… too much… far too much."

"I remember when you were first put on medication," Mycroft then said, "And I never thought to ask how that was progressing since it wasn't my place at the time."

"And you think it's your place _now?_ "

He nodded, frowning. "Why wouldn't it be? I'm your employer and we're having breakfast together. So… Katrina, are you still on your medication?"

"I'm on the lowest dosage possible."

"Next suggestion: talk to your doctor and _up_ the dosage."

Katrina's lips drew into a thin line. She hated talking about this with Mycroft, of all people, but he had been her only friend throughout all of this. As long as it wasn't therapy, she would definitely take his advice. "Sure. That sounds… sensible."

"Besides, everyone's beginning to notice you spiraling."

She blanched and dropped her fork onto the plate. "Sorry, what?"

Mycroft set his cutlery down more neatly on his plate and faced her. "They're worried. Michael, Patricia, and yes, even Daniel. They are also not the only ones so please, Katrina, for the love of god – take my advice for once in your life."

"How about I take your advice and some time off work?"

He didn't say anything for a moment. "I think that can be arranged, and also a very good option for you. Learn how to relax again, your age is starting to show in your hands."

Katrina pouted and immediately put her hands in her lap. "Alright, let's not go there. Oh yeah… um, you don't mind dropping me back to Baker Street, do you?"

"I'm sure that can be arranged."

"Brilliant. As lovely as your house is, it does give me the creeps a little. I don't get how you can live here on your own."

"...That was perhaps the most back-handed compliment to ever come from your mouth."

* * *

 **I watched all of Sherlock in like, 2 days. With writing breaks and food breaks and a sleep break. All I want to do is drink tea and solve crimes.**

 **Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this! It properly cements Katrina and Mycroft as friends. :)**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	13. Ghost

Somehow, following Mycroft's advice was actually _working_ to an extent, and Katrina was pleasantly surprised. Even though her sleeping pattern was still messed up as hell, she wasn't as massively paranoid during the day which was something good at least.

Soon enough, December and the festive season began to close in, not that Katrina was really feeling it, despite all of Mrs Hudson's best efforts to get her to adorn the flat with decorations.

"I appreciate you trying, Mrs Hudson, but I'm just not in a festive mood, you know?" Katrina told her – a little sadly, when she thought about it – one morning a week into December.

"Oh! Oh..." Mrs Hudson tried not to let the disappointment show on her face. "Well, that's fair enough, each to their own and all."

The minute Mrs Hudson left the flat and returned to her own, Katrina sighed and lit herself a cigarette. She'd managed to start cutting down on those too, and only ever really had them when she felt particularly awful.

Tis the season, and all that.

Katrina leaned against the wall by the open window, tapping her cigarette out of it whenever it was necessary. She remembered Christmas from last year – it had been a bit of a dull affair. There was a simple exchange of crappy gifts between herself and John, a bottle of wine was opened, then another, and then they were pretty drunk before the evening was out.

Maybe not so dull after all. Perhaps seen as dull to more normal people, but they were far from normal.

At that moment, she wondered how John was doing. For the first time in a long time, Katrina actually wondered about John's life. Despite the fact she'd nearly had a run in with him six months ago, she had never given him any thought but now that the festive season had rolled around…

Katrina tossed the cigarette butt out of the window.

Now was really not the time to be thinking about that.

She was about ready to go into work – she was slowly building up her days, and settled for going in in the afternoons for now, which was absolutely fine with Mycroft. As long as she was still following his advice, then he didn't mind too much.

As Katrina was going to move away from the window, she noticed something on the street.

Someone across the road, standing still as possible, quite possibly watching the flat. They were wearing a hoodie and jeans, so Katrina she couldn't see their face. She went to get her coat and then came back to the window as she put it on. The person's head snapped up and then they bolted.

So did Katrina. She just about managed to grab her keys on the way out as she bounded down the stairs and out onto the street, nearly tumbling into the road as she did so. Katrina looked left and right, and saw the person heading in the direction towards Regent's Park.

Considering how out of practice she was with running, Katrina was fairly out of breath by the time she reached the gate of the park, but that didn't stop her. Although she had lost track of whoever it was that had been outside the flat.

She skidded to a halt, deciding that now was a good opportunity to catch her breath. It came out like dragon's breath, thus it only occurred to her now hold cold it was outside. She was far too warm to feel at the current moment. Katrina then walked into the park, deciding to take a right turn down the main pathway. At one of the benches further down it, she spotted that same person in the hoodie just sitting on one. No need to run anymore.

Katrina hurried to them, and when they heard her approaching and stood up, lowering their hood. The revelation startled her.

"I thought–"

"You weren't going to see me again?" Irene Adler moved slowly towards her.

"Something like that..." Katrina quirked an eyebrow up at her. "Why are you here?"

Irene licked her lips. "As ever, something brought me back."

"What was it this time?"

"Can't say," she replied quickly. "Well – I can give you a name."

"Oh?"

"Alexandra Myers."

"She can fuck right off, if you ask me."

Irene chuckled at that statement.

"Why were you watching the flat?" Katrina wandered over to the bench and sat down, Irene joining her.

"I wanted to see how you were." Irene's hand rested deliberately near Katrina's, something which didn't go amiss by the latter.

"I thought you weren't the sentimental type."

"I'm not. I was just… curious. You weren't exactly best off when we first met, were you, darling?" Irene gave Katrina a _look_ , something that was borderline patronising, and Katrina almost rolled her eyes. Almost.

There was no doubt that Katrina harboured some sort of sentiment for Irene – she had, after all, been the woman to give her joy for the first time in quite a while. Katrina held onto things like that, but by no means did she think about Irene Adler every day, as it was obvious she didn't think about her.

It was strange that Irene should want to see Katrina after nearly a year, but perhaps the opportunity had merely been dangled in front of her in some way.

"You're here because of Mycroft, aren't you?" Katrina asked her, and Irene smiled.

"You're more clever than you let on, if I'm honest. You don't show off – a shame, really, I do love a good show off… besides, I had a feeling that you would have mentioned me to him. I know you were joking about clearing my name but I think you could probably put in a word for me now."

Katrina laughed at that and took Irene's hand. She was good – too good. "I can… always try."

Irene didn't say anything and silence fell between them. Comfortable or awkward, it was hard to tell. The two women barely knew each other, but they knew enough about pain and loss and love that the feelings seemed to ebb between them. Confusion, too. Confusion on Katrina's part, because why would Mycroft want to work with Irene Adler after everything that had transpired well over two years ago?

"I have to go to work," Katrina then said.

"Do you now?"

"Yes."

"You're not moving."

"No," Katrina frowned, letting go of Irene, "Maybe I'm curious too." Mycroft and Irene working together. Confusing, yes, but a curiosity too.

Irene bit her lip, knowing exactly what Katrina meant. "This is something you should stay away from. It's more of a speculation task… I don't know how to explain it, but you need to stay away."

"Then you shouldn't have stopped outside my door," Katrina told her pointedly, as Irene stood up. "Gotta say, that outfit _really_ doesn't suit you."

"I'm aware, but I needed a disguise."

"And you didn't go full nude?" Katrina retorted.

"Wouldn't quite work. Too obvious, don't you think?" Irene paused a moment. "I say I'm here for speculation purposes. Well… one speculation is that she's working for Magnussen."

Katrina jumped up, her jaw taut and shaking her head. She felt herself suddenly go cold, and Irene seemed to realise the mistake she had made.

"Kat..."

"No – don't go there. Do not – do not go there." Katrina started backing away from the woman slowly. "Don't..."

"I thought you would want to know," Irene looked pained – like she regret saying anything in the first place.

"Maybe there are some things that should be left unsaid."

And she ran off. It was surprising how much fear could be placed into her with the mention of that name. Irene had been right: this was something Katrina should have stayed away from, and oh she had tried. Even though there was no way that Irene would have known about Magnussen, the terror had clearly been enough to make her regret saying his name.

The moment he had her cornered flashed back through her mind, and she swore she could have felt his hand wrapped around her wrist, which only caused her to run harder. When it got to a point where she knew she was totally alone, she half collapsed to her hands and knees struggling to breathe.

" _I know what happened in Berlin. I know who you shot. I know what you did when you were younger. I know who knows what you did and who doesn't."_

She hated how his words made her skin crawl and suffocate her. It still shocked her how he found out, because there was no way that Mycroft would have said anything to him.

" _That raspberry hair product doesn't suit you, Miss Jenkins, I would switch back to the coconut one if I were you."_

She'd kept using the raspberry one in an effort to keep herself clean of anything that he may approve of to do with her. Any opinion he had of her, she wanted to rinse away and not let it defile her body.

Those same sentences carried on circling Katrina's mind until she had managed even her breathing and calm down. She'd never reacted like that to something before. Never in her life.

She got up and opted for walking, trying to keep herself calm.

Everything felt far too close at this rate.

* * *

"What the hell have you done?!" Mycroft shouted at the pair of them. "Why were _you_ even outside the flat in the first place?" He jabbed a finger in Irene's direction.

The woman appeared shaken by the shouting. "She wasn't right the last time I saw her, I had to see – if now..."

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the _losing_ side, need I remind you?" Sherlock spat at her. "I don't appreciate being scolded like a child when this wasn't my fault. If anything it's _yours_ for bringing me back here for it. I could have done this in France, for goodness' sake!"

"While you're drugged up on heroin, little brother? I don't think so," Mycroft scoffed, causing Sherlock to scowl at him.

"What did you say to her?" He turned to Irene. She glanced down at the floor. "What did you say to her?!"

"I told her about Magnussen."

"And she went off on one because of that?" Sherlock couldn't piece it together in his head, so he faced Mycroft again. "What haven't you told me?"

"It's actually none of your business, for once."

"Is Magnussen blackmailing her for what happened in Berlin?"

Silence fell in the room, then Mycroft sighed and sank down into his chair. Irene was none the wiser about it, and instead raised an eyebrow about the matter. "I'll leave you to figure it out for yourself, there's more to it than that..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly in quite some distress.

"You don't need to know any more than that..." he said quietly. "And if you think for one second about trying to find her, I will have you exiled until further notice, am I clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock said stiffly.

"Now the pair of you: do the job you were here to do. And then get out of the country before somebody recognises either of you."

"Bit late for Miss Adler, if you ask me..." Sherlock muttered, and she rolled her eyes.

"And if I found out you've been purchasing heroin, that is another reason for you to be out of here."

"Lucky for you, I paid off everyone before I played dead."

"I can try and make him get clean," Irene offered. "To make up for any inconvenience that I caused today."

"I think I would that may help. Now go. I have a computer genius to find," Mycroft waved off the pair, and they glanced at each other like a pair of delinquents.

* * *

Hyde Park was large, but that was what made it secluded. Nobody would care if they saw her looking rather spaced out and upset. Nobody would care that the life was pretty much draining from her with every passing second. Katrina couldn't tell if that had been from all the running, or the fact that Magnussen had been involved with some of the cases she'd been on with Sherlock almost… two years ago, now?

What was he trying to do? What was he trying to achieve with all of this? What game was he playing? It made no sense.

What did make sense? How afraid she was. Katrina began to wonder if someone was still watching her – someone that wasn't Mycroft – just like she had the previous month. It wasn't intense as before, but she still felt it. That creeping feeling over her skin and the pit in her stomach, and the edgy paranoia.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She didn't know what she could possibly do to stop it – to stop Magnussen. It would just backfire. He knew _things_. He knew _things_ about _people_ and it made him more powerful than Mycroft.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, but the sun was starting to go down. Katrina disliked winter, because the night always came in too early. It only served to make the paranoia worse – and what didn't help was that in this big, empty park, she managed to catch sight of another hoodied figure staring at her.

And it wasn't Irene.

"What are you playing at?" she called out to them, beginning to make her way towards them. Every step forward she took, they matched it going back. They didn't want to be seen by her.

This day just kept getting weirder and weirder as it went along.

"You're with Irene, aren't you?" The tears that had welled up in her eyes spilled down onto her white cheeks, and she couldn't stop her voice from shaking. "So that means you know, don't you? You know about me, you know about… you know about _everything._ And I don't know _you_ , so I'm not – I'm not okay with this."

They didn't respond, but instead kept moving backwards at the same pace she was moving forwards.

"Speak to me," she breathed. "Whoever you are, say something. _Please..._ "

* * *

" _Please..._ "

Sherlock couldn't help himself. Despite what Mycroft had said, he couldn't help it. Just like Irene, there was a curiosity there. He'd wanted to see how far she'd come but perhaps he'd decided to do that at the wrong moment. He'd already paid John a sneaky visit, and he was surprised to find that all was well with the army doctor. Katrina, on the other hand… Katrina was not herself, in different senses of the word.

She looked more… professional, he could admit that. The way she held herself, the way she spoke – all traces of where she had originally come from were gone. She sounded that little bit more like a Londoner that she had learned to become over the course of the few years she had lived there. Sherlock felt some sort of pride there.

But her eyes didn't have a spark in them. No sense of adventure or longing for life that she used to have. Even in the setting sun and the distance he was at, he could see dark rings which indicated a lack of sleep, pallor in her skin that showed she was not well in the slightest.

And yet… he wasn't sure if he cared.

He was confused. He admitted to missing John Watson – hence that visit to him this morning – but Katrina… he'd stopped missing her months ago and now he had mixed feelings. He cared but he didn't. He was proud but… he didn't care. Was that pity he was feeling? For how ill she currently looked? Perhaps it was. It was strange how emotions he kept locked away could fight their way to the surface when he stared at the person who taught him something about them.

If there was one thing he could say he definitely missed, it was observing her. She was, by all accounts, a fascinating human being.

Sherlock thought about saying something. He'd picked up a few accents and could change his voice easily.

For now he was just matching footsteps.

"I'm..." An Eastern European accent slipped out of his mouth. "I'm sorry."

She stopped walking, looking just as about confused as he felt.

"Why?"

This was getting too close. Far too close.

The moment from the rooftop flashed through his mind as clear as day. That was what he was sorry for, not that she'd know it was him saying it. She thought he was a stranger, and for some reason that… that didn't sit right with him.

"Magnussen," was the answer he gave. Then he sped off, and he knew the woman was giving chase.

As he ran, he thought back to the first time he had run with Katrina, across the roof tops of London to avoid a killer who was after a diamond that she had. That exact same adrenaline pumped through his veins and a smile slipped onto his face for the first time in a year and a half. Except she should have been next to him, not running behind him…

He tripped over a stray twig as that thought came into his head.

A moment later, he felt soft hands on him, trying to help him up, but he shook her off. Sherlock became aware that his hood had come off and as soon as he started running again, realised that she wasn't following.

He carried straight on, out of the park and onto the street, putting it back up and deciding where to go. It occurred to him that he needed to get to grips with London again for the short time he was here.

* * *

She knew that curly hair anywhere.

Or was it just a coincidence?

Either way, when the man got up and ran off into the dark, a new bout of shock overwhelmed Katrina and she fell to her knees in Hyde Park, letting sobs wrack her body for the second time that day.

Had she seen a ghost?

No, he had been very real. She'd touched him.

Was it him? Was it Sherlock?

No, she saw him jump off a roof.

Then who was it? Who was that? Who was with Irene?

Same answer for too many similar questions.

She didn't have her phone on her, so couldn't contact Mycroft – ridiculous, in her eyes, her phone was always in her coat.

Regardless, she pulled herself together the best she could and stood up, making a decision about where to go next. Katrina didn't feel in the right mindset to go home, concerned that Irene might be there again and she didn't want to face the woman.

Katrina lost track of time as she walked through London in a bit of a daze. She wasn't sure what was real anymore. Had she seen him? Had she seen Sherlock Holmes in London?

No, she hadn't. It was just a trick…

That was all she kept flitting back and forth between, and eventually a few hours later she made it to the graveyard.

She needed some sort of clarity, and she hoped she would find it there.

Only in her state and clumsiness, Katrina managed to trip over the base of the tree that was near Sherlock's grave stone, and she banged her head pretty badly on the ground too. She felt something trickle down her forehead, and she knew she'd _really_ done it now.

Katrina more or less dragged herself towards Sherlock's grave, not finding the energy in herself to stand up and actually walk. She curled up at the bottom of it, her coat not providing much warmth.

"Why… why are you here? Are – are you here? There was so much – so much I never said..." she began to cry again. "And now – now I can't – what's going on? I need to stop doing this – you're dead – why do – oh my god..."

She could feel herself beginning to lose consciousness.

"I think I might still love you..."

Katrina gave out after that.

Someone came and lay an extra coat on top of her for warmth.

* * *

Mycroft received an interesting phone call the following morning.

He'd ended up sleeping in the office, purely just in case anybody had managed to find Katrina in the night. Since he'd decided to be a little more slack with her, it meant that she'd been able to slip off the radar easily, and that wasn't ideal for Mycroft. Not when… not when he was worried about her.

He couldn't deny that fact.

So when he received a call from the police saying that Katrina was asking for him, Mycroft had never been so surprised in his life. He'd never moved so quickly in his life, either.

He was able to get to Katrina within the hour.

Of course, it made sense that she was at the graveyard.

By the time he arrived, he actually ran towards where Katrina was. She was being looked after by two police officers, but the minute she saw Mycroft she broke away and headed in his direction. Even though a coat flew off of her, she was wearing one underneath anyway. She flung herself into his arms, and despite the initial shock of that, Mycroft carefully – very, very carefully – placed his arms around her.

He wasn't used to this sort of contact with people, but he knew it would be illogical to deny Katrina the closeness that she wanted. She wanted a friend. Mycroft was happy enough to give that to her; even more so because she wasn't crying. That and the physical contact would have been too much for him to deal with. Yes, they were friends, but he still had his boundaries for the time being.

"I… Mycroft, I… I saw a ghost. I think I saw a ghost… did I?"

Mycroft thought his heart stopped for a moment, and his brain turned off too. She'd seen Sherlock. That was the final straw – she did not need to be any more distress than she already was, and if Sherlock had ever cared for Katrina… he shouldn't have gone near her.

"You saw a ghost, Katrina," he obviously lied through his teeth, just as he had done for the past year and a half. "Or someone who looked like him."

"Right… yes… of course I did." She pulled back from him, and he properly looked at her. There was a bit of a nasty gash in her forehead and she looked more ill than he could ever remember her being. "Why – why did I have another coat on?"

"Perhaps someone was being kind." That wasn't a lie. Mycroft could only assume that Sherlock knew he had made a rather large mistake and tried to do something to gently rectify that.

It was lucky that Katrina hadn't paid attention to whose coat was placed on her as a blanket in the first place.

"Home?" he then said. She nodded, and he thanked the approaching officers before leading Katrina back to the car, more at ease because he had finally let go of her and she was walking a step or two behind him.

A last glance over his shoulder showed him his brother being nearby, only to be seen by Mycroft; Katrina didn't really have a clue what was going on, so she didn't bother looking back.

He glared at Sherlock.

It was time to find out the truth.

* * *

 **I am So Sorry that I won't give Katrina a break.**

 **And yes, I had Mycroft bring back Sherlock and Irene to investigate ~serious things~ since he couldn't put his own people at risk, of course. You saw how Magnussen found out about Katrina's shady past with all that.**

 **If you remember correctly from Returning the Favour, Alexandra Myers had herself a mystery employer, and some people had suggestions... I hope that was good enough confirmation for you about that this chapter.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	14. The Truth

"Thank you for what you have done. It's proved useful, even though it was hard to uncover much, you've done well," Mycroft told Sherlock and Irene as they sat opposite him. "Miss Adler, you can go."

The woman nodded and took her leave. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not entirely impressed with the fact he was still there.

"Am I in trouble, big brother?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"Hm, ever the detective, aren't you?"

"What did I do?"

"You know _exactly_ what you did, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice turned harsh. "You did the opposite of what I told you not to do."

Sherlock didn't say anything in response. He knew that he'd been stupid in trying to get close to Katrina because he'd almost revealed himself. All for the sake of curiosity and nostalgia. He sat there like a teenager who'd been caught doing something worse than trying to go after a girl.

Go after a girl? It wasn't quite like that. He'd forgotten most things about her, but in that one instance of being so close to her, oh, he'd remembered _everything._ And he cared, not that he'd confess it to Mycroft. He still cared after all this time of convincing himself that he didn't.

He licked his lips and glanced down at his lap.

"What would you have me do? Not take the bait that you had dangled in front of me?"

"I was surprised you even changed your mind in the first place. You were so adamant not to come back. Why did you? And tell me the truth. I know when you're lying to me, Sherlock."

He took a deep breath. "Fine. I came back because of her, and because I couldn't resist the lure of Alexandra Myers either. That takes me back, you know, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't help myself. Good to finally know who she's working for and it's not just speculation anymore, although Katrina still thinks that..."

"Katrina is clever enough to figure that it won't just be speculation."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure, but going by the way she acted a few days ago, I doubt she'll be coming to that realisation that it's true any time soon."

"It's been a year and a half, Sherlock, don't doubt her." Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother.

"Oh, I'm not, I'm merely suggesting she's slower. Why is Magnussen putting pressure on Katrina other than Berlin?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"The truth, Mycroft, I'll give it to you if you give it to me," Sherlock told him through gritted teeth.

Mycroft sighed. "She does more than just hacking. She's _done_ more than just hacking, and programming and everything you think you know about her."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He knew that she'd done some rather tasteless things – that much was obvious – but what could possibly have overstepped the line? "What was it?"

"The dark web, believe it or not," Mycroft stated matter of factly. Sherlock relaxed in his seat, his fingers meeting beneath his chin.

"How was that not more obvious?"

"Yes, I wondered the same thing. Now. Your turn."

"A Scandal in Belgravia..." Sherlock muttered. "I admit I had an obsession with Irene Adler because she was able to beat me, and then along came Katrina Jenkins and I admit to having an obsession with her. Perhaps I saw everything I did with her as an experiment, to see how the other side lived their lives. She did a terrific job, I might add, we went on a dinner date.

"I doubt you've been on a dinner date, but it was rather entertaining because of how one of Myers' experiments ruined it. I've never seen Katrina so… out of her comfort zone, trying to solve a case because I was a little… well, I think you know _that_ story.

"I believe my obsession turned to lust along the way. I'm not entirely sure why, but it did. I know she had feelings for me – I don't know if she still does – but you know for a fact I don't experience romantic feelings and I believe I barely have the capacity for that. But lust? That requires less attachment. She once told me that she tried to avoid love, but we both know that wasn't the case when it came to me. I still don't understand that. Maybe she was just lying to me.

"Katrina Ann Jenkins has fascinated me from the beginning – she always will – and if me being exiled for an undisclosed amount of time is what I get for breaking one of _your_ rules, then I suppose it was worth it."

Mycroft's brow furrowed the more and more Sherlock went on. Fascinating how he could recognise that one emotion out of all of them – _lust._ And he nearly compromised himself all for the sake of lust.

"You're so stupid, sometimes," was all Mycroft could say.

"I'll agree with you for once to make it easy." Sherlock stood up, straightening out his clothing. "She almost saw my face."

"She was not in the state to almost see your face!" Mycroft pretty much slammed his fist down on the desk, causing Sherlock to take a step back. "Ever since her dispute with John, I have made it my duty to ensure she remains… somewhat _sane._ "

Sherlock mock gasped. "You finally made a friend!"

Mycroft gave him a dark look. "Don't taunt me, brother dear, she's not a goldfish. I don't settle for that."

"You're obsessed with her too."

"I don't get obsessed with anybody, Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"You kept pestering her about working for you pretty much every time you saw her! How is _that_ not obsessed?"

"At least I didn't send her a birthday letter a year in advance."

Sherlock stiffened. Had… had Katrina told Mycroft about that? She would have done, wouldn't she? Friends told each other things, as far as he remembered. He'd not had a friend in so long, it was often hard to know what was what…

"I had realised that… if everything had gone to plan – as it did – then it was her birthday that I would have jumped. And I did. She's more human than I am – she would have been hurting, yes? So… I thought it would have eased the pain," he admitted, not proudly, but with a little shame. Sadness. It were as if Sherlock knew that it may have done the exact opposite.

Mycroft stared hard at his little brother; his little brother so out of touch with the world, so out of touch with humanity in general. Except there was one thing that made him at least try, and that was Katrina. It was rather odd how that curiosity had turned to an obsession; had turned to lust. He could see in Sherlock's face that he wanted more – he wanted to try.

"She tortured herself a lot. She would have conversations with you inside her head and if anything it made her worse at points. It's stopped now, but I'm worried it may start again because you decided to think with something else other than your brain," Mycroft said.

Sherlock's shoulders sagged for a moment, but then he righted himself.

"That's hardly my fault, is it? Maybe she's obsessed with me."

"I think her feelings for you are long gone."

"She thinks she still loves me. I heard her say it a few days ago," Sherlock sighed. "If I were you, I'd stamp out that notion before it gets to her and she… _loses it_ , for want of a better term."

"It's interesting how we're discussing what's best for her, even though she's a grown woman who is perfectly capable of deciding things for herself."

"Yet she takes your advice," Sherlock pointed out.

"She trusts me. As she once trusted you."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up. "You say that like she'll trust me again. Like I'm actually going to come back."

"One day, perhaps. There's still a few remainders of Moriarty's network out there. I'm putting you into exile until that's dealt with and until I need you again."

"You'll be tracking me more closely?"

"Of course. I'm not letting you slip from my radar."

"Don't treat me like a petulant child."

"You _are_ a petulant child."

"Says _you._ "

"Sherlock..." Mycroft warned him. "Forget your lust for Katrina and get on with the task at hand. And if I find out from Miss Adler that you are using, I won't be impressed."

"Funny how you're perfectly fine with Miss Adler, now."

"Anyone who Katrina sleeps with can't be all bad, can they?" Mycroft tilted his head to the side and gave Sherlock a wry smile. "Now go. I won't be in contact with you again until it's necessary. I assume you prefer it that way."

"I do. Thank you for the excursion, Mycroft, I sincerely hope it was worth it."

As Sherlock made to leave the office, Mycroft had one final comment. "I hope it was worth it for you tipping your friend over the edge."

Sherlock's hand rested on the door handle. "She's been through worse."

"I need your list, Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes, but dug into his pocket and went back to his brother to hand it to him. "Happy now?"

"Not really, but I'm sure I'll get there." Mycroft gave Sherlock a wry smile and the younger Holmes departed.

He was certain that Sherlock was going to be the death of him.

* * *

Christmas Day.

Well, except it wasn't really Christmas Day for Katrina. It was just the 25th of December. This was quite possibly the first time since the incident in Hyde Park and the graveyard that she had actually felt stable.

Stable enough to start packing away Sherlock's things and storing them in the spare room until she knew what to do with them – the spare room being John's old room. There was only furniture in there now; bare furniture, at that.

It had only occurred to her the night before that she still kept her clothes in her suitcase while his were in the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. Old habits die hard, Katrina supposed. All the same, she found some boxes packed away and she set to it, rolling her sleeves up and tying her hair back.

It was lucky that there weren't any lingering experiments, but she still disinfected all the necessary places that they had been in – the fridge, the oven, and the microwave. Even though she'd been using all three of those things safely for a year, Katrina realised that she hadn't actually scrubbed them clean.

All his science equipment was packed away the most carefully, and stored in the wardrobe in the spare room. She didn't want that getting damaged. Anything in the living room that had belong to Sherlock – be it notebooks, folders, laptops… all of it went into boxes.

It was when she finally got to the clothes that Katrina realised she would probably need some help with that. He'd _worn_ them. There was a difference between clothing and possessions, she found, because for all the times you could wash clothes, there were more memories attached to them. Certain shirts were worn on memorable occasions; certain shoes for certain tasks.

She picked her phone off of the bedside table and called Mycroft.

" _We're not wishing each other Merry Christmas now, are we?"_ was the first thing Mycroft said, and it made Katrina laugh.

"No! Don't be silly. You barely wished me a happy birthday, remember? Anyway, I..." Katrina glanced over at the wardrobe and gulped. "I need help with something."

" _What do you need help with?"_

"I'm packing up all of Sherlock's stuff and just… putting it in the spare room, I suppose. I've done most of it, it's the clothes now."

" _You can't bring yourself to look at them, can you?"_

"Something like that. Do you mind?"

" _As long as you don't mind, I'm fine to help."_

The line went dead, and Katrina assumed he was on his way right there and then. She was right on that part, because the door bell rang about half an hour later.

She went and brought Mycroft inside, and he seemed stunned by her more casual appearance – he didn't say anything, but Katrina could feel him staring at her as they walked up the stairs. He'd only ever really saw her dressed smartly and in a skirt for the past year, after all.

Katrina waited for him to remove his coat and shoes before they went off into the bedroom.

"I'm surprised you actually came," Katrina remarked, "I didn't think you would, because it's… well, it's Sherlock."

"I wasn't doing anything today anyway," Mycroft wandered towards the chest of drawers and opened them, "Besides, I thought that you would ask for my help once you got around to eventually doing all of this."

He pulled out a small pile of neatly folded t-shirts. Pyjama shirts, to be more specific. Katrina handed him a box from where she was on the bed and he took it with a sharp hum of thanks, placing the clothing inside.

"Mycroft… I know you do your best to hide your actual feelings, but I've never asked how you are, in all of this. He was your brother."

Since he had his back to her, Katrina didn't see his jaw lock for a moment before he relaxed. "If you must know the truth, I was deeply affected by his loss. Heartbroken, if you will." He turned and placed more clothes in the box. "But I have a job to get on with Katrina – a life to get on with – and so I cannot spend time worrying about sentiment."

"Then why did you never tell me… I dunno, snap out of it?"

He was shocked she would even ask such a question, so he came to sit next to her. "Katrina, you are wired to your emotions differently to I am. I find it easier to simply lock them away, opting for reason and logic over them. It's what I know best. What _you_ know best is to trust your emotions and follow your instincts. You do it far better than most, but that's because you are also highly intelligent and I _know_ for a fact you are capable of logical thought. Me telling you to 'snap out of it' would have had an adverse affect on you."

"Right… right… that makes sense, I guess. "You really hate it when I cry though, don't you?" she grinned at him, and Mycroft wasn't able to suppress his chuckle fast enough.

"I have my limits, yes." He patted her on the knee. "Come on. You can't expect me to do all of my brother's clothing. I'll do the drawers, you do the wardrobe."

Katrina rolled her eyes in a playful manner but hopped over to the wardrobe all the same, feeling a little better about it now. Although when she opened it, she did feel a pang go through her body. The first thing her eyes had laid on was the purple shirt.

She took it out, holding it on the hanger with one hand, while the other delicately traced down the material. It was still smooth, not a crease in sight, as if it had just been ironed that morning. She'd always liked this shirt; it still smelled of him too. From what she could remember.

"Would it be so wrong of me to keep this for myself?" she asked Mycroft quietly. He'd not been paying attention to her, but now he was.

He sighed. "I'm beginning to wonder if you're still in love with my brother. He's dead, Katrina. He's not coming back."

"I know he's not coming back, I just – I thought I was, but I'm not so sure anymore. But I always liked this shirt..." She took it off the hanger and held it close to her. "I need a moment."

Katrina hurried off, knowing Mycroft would leave her to her own devices for some time.

Indecency didn't matter when it was hard to even see into the flat from below on the street and all the other doors in the place were closed – she stripped off the shirt she was wearing, discarding it on the floor and putting on the purple one. Somehow, she suddenly felt like she really was at home. That even after a year of living at 221B, it was finally and truly the home she belonged to. All because of a bloody shirt.

She wandered into the kitchen and got herself a glass, before heading to the cupboard next to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. As she went to sit in the blue armchair, she awkwardly poured herself a drink along the way.

Once she was settled, Katrina slowly sipped on the sunset gold liquid, barely even wincing as the forty-something-percent beverage stung her throat a little as she swallowed. Christmas was a strange time of year, wasn't it? It made people do the strangest of things, and this was Katrina's strange thing.

That was how Mycroft found her about an hour later: curled up in the armchair getting progressively more drunk with every passing sip and glass of whiskey.

He didn't say anything when he saw her in that half dazed state, he merely went to the kitchen and found a glass for himself, thereby joining her.

He sat down in the chair opposite, and raised his glass.

"To Sherlock Holmes?"

"To Sherlock Holmes," she agreed, raising her glass too, before downing the rest of it.

They were both quiet for a moment or two.

"I am going to be so hungover tomorrow..." Katrina stared at her glass in distaste.

"And I will not be here to cook you breakfast, unfortunately."

"Please, I've handled myself _plenty_ of times with far worse hangovers," Katrina scoffed. Mycroft gave her a quick, rare smile; so quick, she almost thought it didn't happen. "Thank you, by the way, for coming over today."

"You're very welcome. At least I could be of some assistance to you."

"I'd probably hug you right now if I knew I wasn't going to fall over the minute I stand up."

"Please don't feel the need to hug me."

"Sorry."

* * *

 **Feels and fluff, it's what I do best.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	15. Lestrade Comes Calling

_**6 months later...**_

 _You have a visitor.  
_ _-MH_

 _Who is it?  
_ _-KJ_

 _I'm sending him in.  
_ _-MH_

 _Alright, thanks.  
_ _-KJ_

About five minutes later there was a knock on the door and Katrina beckoned for whoever it was to come in. She wasn't sure who she'd been expecting, but certainly not Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Jesus Christ, Greg!" she blurted out in astonishment, a smile crossing her face. "God, it's been… it's been two years..."

"To the date."

"Really?" Katrina frowned, and glanced at the calendar on her computer. "Oh. That's awkward. That's my birthday. Anyway, I would offer you a seat but I don't have any spare ones, sorry."

Lestrade was quite taken aback by her blasé attitude about her birthday, but didn't press the matter.

"You're doing well. It's nice to see you doing well, actually."

"What do you mean by that?" She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Well you weren't exactly in the most perfect situation, were you? Not the happiest crime solver in the world, and now you work for the government in a… nice suit," Lestrade realised he was losing track of the point he was trying to make, and Katrina awkwardly began typing at something on her computer. "Anyway… you look healthy."

"Greg?"

"Hmm?"

"How's the wife?"

He groaned, and she smirked.

"Alright, alright, I'll stop digging. I came by to let you know we've reopened the Reichenbach case."

Katrina stopped typing and placed her hands in her lap. "Oh. Why?"

"Sally Donovan and you. That's why. Something didn't seem right then."

She didn't meet Lestrade's gaze, knowing what he was trying to get at. She'd refused to speak to him when they first found her after, and only spoke to Donovan. It hadn't exactly been in an official situation because she didn't want it going on record.

"We need you to make an official statement about what happened, because you're the only person who can clear Sherlock's name. The only things we do have proof of are photos of your bruises. That's it. Nothing to explain where they came from or who gave them."

 _I was the one that had to ruin his name in the first place…_ she thought. "Why two years after he died?"

"It seemed appropriate. Plus… well, Anderson's gone barking mad, coming up with theories saying that Sherlock faked his death," Lestrade shook his head, still clearly not sure how to deal with that situation. "I think he feels bad. He's off the force, now."

"He was pretty useless anyway..." Katrina muttered. "When do you want me to come in?"

"Tomorrow, if you can."

She nodded. "I'll talk to Mycroft about taking a half day or something. Is that all? I don't mean to be rude, but I have things to be getting on with."

"Sure. Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow then."

After he left, Katrina let out a long breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding in. As if she needed this now. It had been two years, but it had also been six months since her last sort of breakdown. She was doing perfectly fine and had no need to worry about this anymore.

Except they had to dredge it all back up, didn't they? Just because it hadn't looked right – none of it had – but they didn't care at the time, apparently. They were all willing to believe Sherlock really _had_ been a fraud. No wonder it was so easy to slip past giving an official statement…

A few minutes later, Mycroft entered. He barely ever knocked and she was used to it at this point.

"What did the Detective Inspector want?" he asked her.

"They're reopening the Reichenbach case, because apparently something doesn't add up. Only took them two bloody years..." she muttered.

"I see… I'm guessing they want you to talk."

"They want me to talk tomorrow..." she bit her lip. "I'll need a half day. I'll make up for it on the weekend."

"Of course," Mycroft said. "Just… be careful."

She frowned. "Why do I need to be careful?"

He was quiet for a moment. "How long have you been seeing your therapist?"

"I stopped seeing her two weeks ago. I feel fine, Mycroft, what's going on? What aren't you telling me?"

"For quite some time, I've believed you need to consider the idea you may have post -traumatic stress disorder."

Katrina couldn't help but laugh at that. "Seriously? I've not had any… incidents for ages, Mycroft, why are you saying this now?"

"I don't want you to… get worked up about this. Especially the–"

"The drowning. Right. Because that's happened too many times in two years." Katrina leaned forward on the desk. "Mycroft, I appreciate the concern – no, no, don't try and deny it, I know you're concerned – but I'll be fine. Trust me. Can you do that?"

He had no reason _not_ to trust her – besides, he already _did_ trust her, that much was obvious. So, Mycroft nodded, and left Katrina to it.

The woman began to wonder if there was some truth behind Mycroft's words, about her possibly having PTSD. She thought back to December, and how she'd reacted when _his_ name was mentioned. Katrina'd known that was exactly normal, but did that mean she had PTSD? She thought about the Berlin incident too, with the rats and the water…

Even Moran had made her stay with him until he was absolutely sure she wasn't going freak out on him.

She got a text off of Lestrade, telling her to come to Scotland Yard in the morning, and she replied saying that was fine by her.

The whole idea of actually properly talking about what happened daunted her a little, and played with her mind for the rest of the day and the night. Still, Katrina managed to get her work done for the day and had _some_ amount of decent sleep.

Soon enough, she was down at Scotland Yard and sitting in a room with Lestrade and Donovan, feeling like naughty child with the way they were staring at her. A recorder was on the table between them, and the light was on. They were just waiting for her to talk.

"Where do you want me to start?" she asked them.

"When you were taken," Lestrade replied.

"Alright… um… well, Sherlock and John were in Dartmoor at the time – at Baskerville – and I stayed behind because Mycroft needed my help with something. Actually, he was more or less testing me because he was… obsessed with trying to get me to work for him. He succeeded with that in the end," she began, a little bit tongue in cheek.

"So I had a bit of an argument with Sherlock down the phone and decided that a walk was a good idea. I didn't even reach the outside because someone had a gun to my back. Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran."

"He was the one that shot you in the diamond case, right?" Lestrade asked. Katrina nodded in confirmation.

"Anyway, I went quietly, as most people put it. I was terrified, and they put a bag over my head so I didn't know where I was. It's a shame that when they took it off, I could easily recognise Battersea Power Station – that wasn't hard. Moriarty kind of… taunted me about what he was planning to do, and how he was going to hurt Sherlock, and how… he was going to hurt me.

"They found somewhere to put me, and that's when I got talking to Moran. He wasn't too keen on going through with what Moriarty was planning. In fact, he hadn't even wanted to shoot me in the diamond case in the first place – I think he was mainly in it for whatever money Moriarty was giving him, but oddly enough he had very good morals. He was kind to me. You can say 'Stockholm Syndrome' all you want, but he was my captor. Jim Moriarty was my captor.

"Moriarty decided to scare me. Rats. I… really hate rats. One of my worst nightmares, actually, and they were very nippy."

Katrina stopped for a minute, the Pied Piper of Hamelin poem flitting through her head. Clearly she appeared quite distressed because Donovan almost reached across the table to take her hand and make sure she was alright – obviously, she thought better of it and didn't.

"Sherlock phoned me at some point after that. When they got back from Baskerville, I can only assume he figured out something wasn't right and he knew I'd have my phone on me because I had been wearing my coat when Moriarty showed up. I keep my phone and my purse in my coat pockets most of the time if I know I'm going out. Sherlock had noticed that, and phoned me so he could get you guys to trace the call."

"So that's when we ended up chasing you halfway across London – Moriarty had found out and took you somewhere else?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. We were in a flat near London Bridge. It's a busy place so it was a risk for Moriarty, but it worked out just fine. None of you knew where I was. And that was when Moriarty coerced me into breaking into the bank, the prison, and the Tower of London. Because I'm good with computers, and it made all his legwork far easier for him. That led to him making me create the Richard Brook story, as well as blackmailing the jury so he walked free. Obviously, Moran oversaw the jury stuff while Moriarty was in jail just biding his time...

"That's why everything looked really, really legitimate. I was able to fake it well enough that you'd all believe Sherlock was lying. Then Moriarty had a run in with our favourite person, Alexandra Myers. He came back to the flat one night really, _really,_ angry and demanded I tell him all about her. I knew barely anything. He stuck my head underwater in a bath tub about three times before he was satisfied I didn't actually know anything besides her name and occupation.

"I was feeling pretty suicidal by that point. I implied that to Moran that I wanted him to shoot me, but he said he wouldn't have it in him to go through on that for me. He'd had a run in with Sherlock too – passed on a note, something about not giving up without a fight.

"I was taken up onto the roof. I told Moriarty I wanted to die and he complied – he strangled me. Not enough to kill me, though. I'd realised that he wanted me to watch Sherlock jump, because I woke up around the time Moriarty shot himself. He strangled me enough for me to pass out, but not to actually die. I had one final conversation with Sherlock before he jumped too.

"Sherlock knew all along that I'd been forced into making all that stuff up about Richard Brook because I would have been killed if I hadn't. Before he went, he told me he'd owed me a favour for a while. So that meant – in the little game Sherlock and I had played – I had lost. I couldn't outdo him on favours anymore, could I? I couldn't owe him anymore."

Silence. It could be sliced with a knife at this point it was so thick.

Lestrade turned off the recorder.

"Fuck," he muttered. "What I wanna know… is why you didn't tell me all of this two years ago?"

Katrina huffed. "You were all so obsessed with proving that Sherlock was a fraud that you wouldn't have believed me. You would have just told me that he had hired Jim Moriarty and that it was all his fault."

Her face and her attitude were now as stoic it could possibly be. She sat a little straighter, trying not to let the memories flood back; they were pushing to breach the forefront of her mind. It was beginning to be quite difficult in repressing them entirely.

"I was already in a shitty place when you brought me in, and I knew telling you about it on record at the time would have made it worse. Now… if you'll excuse me, I believe I have an appointment to make with my therapist again."

As she stood up and left the room, Lestrade and Donovan exchanged curious glances; except they knew that Katrina was right. They had been in so deep with trying to show that Sherlock was a fraud, they would have sent the woman even more out of her depth than she already had been.

At least they knew the full story now.

It was time to do some damage control.

* * *

 **Short chapter! But an important one anyway. It gets rid of that plothole of Katrina avoiding the police two years previously (yes, I admit it was a plothole, but it's fixed now).**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	16. Text Alert

_You were right.  
_ _-KJ_

 _In what respect?  
_ _-MH._

 _I have PTSD.  
_ _-KJ_

 _Ah.  
_ _-MH._

 _...That's it?! 'Ah' is all you have to say?  
_ _-KJ_

 _Please refrain from the overuse of punctuation…  
_ _-MH._

 _MYCROFT!  
_ _-KJ_

 _Apologies.  
_ _I take it you went back to your therapist then.  
_ _-MH._

 _Yeah… after the thing with Greg and Sally.  
_ _-KJ_

 _I did warn you.  
_ _-MH._

 _Yeah, I know. I should have listened.  
_ _But they needed to know.  
_ _-KJ_

 _They did indeed. How did they take it?  
_ _-MH._

 _Well. Questioned why I never went in the first place.  
_ _-KJ_

 _They would have tried to tell you otherwise – of course you never went in the first place.  
_ _-MH._

 _That's what I said to them.  
_ _-KJ_

 _I'm guessing it didn't go down so well.  
_ _-MH._

 _Surprisingly, they were understanding about it. Kinda realised how idiotic they were, tbh.  
_ _-KJ_

 _That's good, then. At least they could admit to their own idiocy.  
_ _-MH._

 _Hmmm. That was odd.  
_ _-KJ_

 _So how did it go overall?  
_ _-MH._

 _It was hard, really hard, but I did it, didn't I? Yeah, I felt like I was probably gonna break down by the end of it but I didn't.  
_ _-KJ_

 _Was it the feeling of a breakdown that made you realise you needed to go back to therapy again?  
_ _-MH._

 _Yes. Also: please don't psychoanalyse me via text, Mycroft.  
_ _-KJ_

 _Wouldn't dream of it.  
_ _-MH._

 _Ha! Yeah right…  
_ _-KJ_

 _Shouldn't you be sleeping?  
_ _-MH._

 _Shouldn't you?  
_ _-KJ_

 _You text me. I responded. That's the etiquette I believe, unless I've missed something?  
_ _-MH._

 _If it's 1am and someone texts you and you're obviously about to sleep, you don't have to reply until after you've slept.  
_ _-KJ_

 _I see. Well, if you don't mind, I would like to sleep.  
_ _-MH._

 _Night Mycroft.  
_ _-KJ_

 _Good night, Katrina.  
_ _-MH._

–

 _Want to come out and get lunch with me?  
_ _-KJ_

 _Who are you avoiding?  
_ _-MH._

 _Nobody.  
_ _-KJ_

 _That took you a full minute to respond.  
_ _-MH._

 _I dropped my tea, what can I say?  
_ _-KJ_

 _Katrina…  
_ _-MH._

 _Fine. I'm avoiding ~the gang~  
_ _-KJ_

 _Who?  
_ _-MH._

 _~The gang~  
_ _-KJ_

 _Who are ~the gang~?  
_ _-MH._

 _Hahaha  
_ _-KJ_

 _Did you do that just so I would repeat your phrase?  
_ _-MH._

 _Yep. Couldn't resist, sorry.  
_ _-KJ_

 _Well? Who are they?  
_ _-MH._

 _Daniel, Patricia, and Michael. They've been trying to have lunch with me for weeks and I've run out of excuses…  
_ _-KJ_

 _Then say you're having lunch with me – we don't actually have to go for lunch.  
_ _-MH._

 _Yeah, but we all leave at the same time otherwise we won't get proper Friday lunch breaks. I can't leave later, before you suggest that.  
_ _-KJ_

 _Fine. I'll go to lunch with you this one time.  
_ _-MH._

 _Thanks Mycroft 3  
_ _-KJ_

 _Don't send a heart again.  
_ _-MH._

 _Sorry.  
_ _-KJ_

–

 _I know it's past 1am and you're probably sleeping and you won't reply to this until the morning but I just got really really really scared for some unknown reason and then all I could keep thinking about was magnussen and jesus christ why  
_ _-kj_

 _sorry sorry sorry I think I forgot my meds today and the day before and maybe the day before that oh god it's been a busy week and I forgot all about them  
_ _-kj_

 _I mean ill be fine I know I will you know I will I mean yeah I just forgot my meds  
_ _-kj_

 _thank fuck for autocorrect  
_ _-kj_

 _Do you need me to come over?  
_ _-MH._

 _No no no no you don't have to I mean if you did there's a spare key under the doormat but you really don't have to  
_ _-kj_

 _Katrina, if you need someone there, then I can be over as quickly as I possibly can.  
_ _-MH._

 _Mycroft…  
_ _-kj_

 _I'm going to come over whether you like it or not.  
_ _-MH._

 _Ok  
_ _-kj_

Katrina was shaking uncontrollably as she set her phone down on the coffee table. She sat huddled in on herself, closing her eyes and forcing back memories of Magnussen whispering his threats to her; forcing back memories of the ghost she'd seen and chased across London.

The minute the rats began to scuttle in the back of her mind, her eyes snapped open and she stared off into space.

That was how Mycroft found Katrina about an hour later, sitting alone in the dark and not saying a damn word when he came in. He didn't switch on the light in fear of making her worse, but he slowly approached her and put a hand on her shoulder.

Whatever state Katrina had been in, Mycroft noticed that she was able to pull herself out of it as soon as he had done that.

"I know you said a few weeks ago that I don't have to reply to texts that are sent at one in the morning if I want to sleep, but the alert went off multiple times. How could I not answer?" Mycroft's hand shifted to her knee as he sat down on the floor by the chair.

Katrina didn't say anything, but she nodded, and placed her hand on top of Mycroft's.

Neither of them spoke for the next few hours, but when the first few rays of sun came filtering into the living room, Mycroft went to the kitchen and made Katrina a cup of green tea. As soon as she had finished that, he guided her back towards her room so that she could get some actual rest – goodness knows she needed it, and so did he. Night buses were not something he wanted to experience again.

Friendship was still a fairly alien concept to Mycroft, he realised as he left 221B about half an hour later after he was sure that Katrina was asleep, but he felt that he was going in the right direction with it. It was exhausting, yes, but Katrina was his only friend. She was the only one worthy of that title, and he was fine with doing whatever necessary for her, as her friend.

She didn't owe him anything for it, naturally, but there was a fluke of an occasion a week later at work where he came into his office in the morning to find a chocolate cupcake on his desk. It was beautifully frosted too.

A small note was next to it.

 _Thank you  
_ _-K_

* * *

 **We are... SO CLOSE to Sherlock coming back and it's gonna be so great.**

 **This chapter makes me happy though. Because Mytrina friendship.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	17. Like Minded People

Eventually, the news trickled out that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud.

The trickle was exactly what it was at first – a trickle – but by September it became a full blown news story, and Katrina was stuck at the centre of it. Somehow, her name had gotten out there that she had finally revealed the truth about Sherlock two years later. It didn't bother her until Mycroft strolled in to see her one morning and deposited three different newspapers, one after the other, onto her desk.

She was now front page news, and she'd been sneakily snapped coming out of 221B within the last week. The woman sighed when she saw the look on Mycroft's face.

"Care to explain?" he asked her.

"Oh yeah, because I'd risk my own private life for a bit of cash – really, I thought that _you_ thought better of me," she retorted. "You know it's been slowly getting out there for a couple of months now, but _none of it_ has been _me!_ "

He pursed his lips and nodded. "There's no harm in checking."

"Right. Because what I really want in my life is people coming to my street and trying to take photos of me while I go about my day – I kept my mouth shut. Someone at Scotland Yard probably got a bit of cash for it, though." Katrina rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the computer. "I can access the Scotland Yard database from here, yes?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. "Technically, yes, but I don't think I've given you that privilege."

"Oh, but you're going to, aren't you?"

"Hmm, I think I know what you're planning to do, Katrina, and I don't particularly want to enable it." He folded his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other; he knew Katrina would want some form of revenge in terms of finding out who had sold everything she had said to the papers, but it wasn't exactly morally right.

"Just for the day…?"

"Katrina..."

"Come on Mycroft, you're as equally as pissed off about this as I am!"

He knew she was trying to make him bend to her will – it would never work. Mycroft never caved to strange demands such as this, but there was an anger emitting from her very soul that he had no wish to further antagonise that. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn't deny he shared the same attitude as Katrina towards all of this.

"For today _only._ And you better find out who did it because I am _not_ giving you that sort of access again. If you don't, I'm going to turn a blind eye to what you do in your spare time and you do not speak of it again, is that understood?"

She looked like a naughty child being told off. "Yep. Understood," Katrina eventually said. She gave Mycroft a wry smile, so he picked up the newspapers he had so rudely dumped on her desk and left.

Well, that was one way to avoid doing her actual work for today if anything. Katrina hadn't really been concentrating properly anyway – trying to avoid photographers earlier that morning had been an annoyance. She'd actually taken to leaving 221B via the back window.

The next few hours had Katrina sifting through Scotland Yard's personnel, breaking into their email accounts and searching her name in order to find out who was the little rat who decided to break some form of confidentiality. She was surprised to find out that Anderson was no longer working there, and she wondered what on earth had happened to him.

Katrina felt herself lucky that she had found out who in Scotland Yard had decided that he really needed the extra money because the overtime wasn't enough, literally ten minutes before she was due to leave. He wasn't anyone of importance, thank goodness, but she had all his details nonetheless. As to what she would do with them now… well, she wasn't sure. She sat back in chair, contemplating the best course of action, before deciding to put all the information on an empty memory stick and deliver it to Mycroft. She put on her coat and grabbed her bag before making her way to his office.

Much like how he had rudely tossed newspapers onto her desk that morning, she tossed the memory stick at him. He caught it, eyeing it before glancing up at her. He pocketed it.

"I admire your dedication sometimes, Katrina," Mycroft remarked. "What do you expect me to do with this?"

Katrina's lips twitched upwards in amusement, mischief dancing her eyes. "I'm sure you'll figure something out," she responded quietly, "Have a good evening, Mycroft."

There was a renewed saunter to the way she walked out of the office, and Mycroft couldn't help but smirk. For what it was worth, she was dealing with a rather irritating situation quite well.

As Katrina made her way towards the tube station, she chuckled to herself. Today had most definitely been a good day – she turned a stupid situation around, and now she couldn't wait to hear from Mycroft about what was going to happen to the poor, unsuspecting policeman at Scotland Yard.

When she was finally on the busy underground train, she managed to somehow get a seat and plugged herself into her phone for the next few minutes while the Jubilee Line went up to Baker Street. While she was thankful for the short journey it did mean less time to listen to some good music, but it also meant that she didn't start sweating profusely along with all the other occupants of the tube because they had longer commutes.

Upon getting to Baker Street, Katrina contemplated going in through the back window, just like she had left that morning. Except a funny sight made her not want to do that, and instead she walked up to a little gaggle of adults (she could only assume) that were sitting on the pavement opposite the flat. Upon seeing her approach, they all stood up and rushed over to her.

They weren't reporters or photographers, they all looked far too… geeky. She was certain there was a better word for it, but that was all Katrina could think of for now. And at the head of the group –

"Anderson?! What the hell are you doing here?"

"We needed to talk to you – we're The Empty Hearse, a group of like minded people who came together to discuss theories about what happened on that roof with Sherlock," he replied, a really odd mad glint in his eyes. Katrina gave him a strange look – the beard he had grown really didn't suit him.

"So that's why you're not at the Yard anymore..." she glossed over the question and crossed over to the correct side of the road. The group followed her. "You went bonkers and quit, or did they fire you?" She called back over her shoulder.

He scowled at her, and that more or less told Katrina everything she needed to know.

"So you're a Sherlock fanclub, good for you. What do you want with me?" She went up the steps to 221b and was ready to let herself in, but turned and faced Anderson and his group, entirely unimpressed. It was at the moment she noticed the deerstalkers that some of them were wearing – and these were supposed to be adults…?

"Is Sherlock still alive?"

Katrina looked at him like he was stupid, and really had to resist the urge to punch him.

"Have you not seen the news?" She reminded Anderson.

"Well, yes, but we believe he was alive – maybe he attached himself to some sort of harness and you just didn't see it? Oh! Maybe it was someone else _acting_ as Sherlock, but you didn't notice and he's just been hiding for the last two years–"

 _Smack._

Anderson stumbled backwards into friends, while Katrina shook out her hand while grimacing. It had been far too long since she had actually punched someone, but she was pleased to see that his nose was bleeding. That was the result she had been hoping for in that split second, and was pretty glad it had actually happened.

"I was on that roof, Anderson. There was no fucking harness, the man was actually Sherlock himself, and I saw him jump. I saw him jump and I saw him die, you absolute waste of space," she spat at him, "I don't care what you think, but Sherlock is dead. I saw it happen, I saw his body afterwards. As much as you probably hate hearing this, but you are an absolute arsehole, and I swear to god if I find you or _any_ of your stupid little group outside _my flat_ again, you'll be sorry. I work for Mycroft Holmes, I'm pretty certain he'd be happy to pull a few strings if I owed him a few favours for it."

The little group stared at her in shock.

"Go on. Get the _fuck_ out of here," she told them in a now dangerously quiet voice, before letting herself into 221b and locking the door securely behind her.

Now.

Surely she had some whiskey left?

Trudging upstairs, Katrina hung up her bag and coat, and kicked off her shoes somewhere. They landed near the desk, she believed.

She wandered to the kitchen and pulled out the bottle of Jack that was in the cupboard next to the fridge, and she was relieved to find that there was still enough left for about three glasses. That would do her for the time being.

As she found a glass to pour it into, she bugged by a silly little idea that might just put the chaos of the press to rest.

So Katrina went and sat at the desk in the living room, idly sipping on the whiskey as she opened up her laptop and went to her blog again, after quite some time away from it. Taking a deep breath, she clicked the button that would allow her to make a new entry.

 _Hello Again. – 23/09/13_

 _Alright, kick me if you want to because I've been gone for a while. I've been trying to get my life together, if I'm honest, and so far it's working quite nicely. Sort of. There have been a few bumps along the way._

 _Now, I know that anybody who googles the name "Katrina Jenkins" will end up on this blog. You probably googled me because of the newspapers. In case anybody's wondering, no, I did not go to the papers. I have a job that allows me to live comfortably enough to be writing this post while drinking straight whiskey._

 _If you're a reporter or a photographer reading this, kindly stop stalking me because it's really annoying. I'm sure you're all disappointed that you didn't see me this morning, I ended up leaving my flat via a back window and dropping onto the landlady's bins. I should probably go talk to her about that. She'll understand, I'm sure._

 _If you're my employer, I'm sure you're aware of "The Empty Hearse" fanclub… they were stalking me too, but I managed to scare them enough not to do it again. Hopefully. I'm fine though, I know you'd be concerned._

 _Anyway…_

 _I kind of would like a quiet life. Stop bothering me. No, I won't talk about what happened, and no, I don't appreciate the weird fame._

 _Ta ta for now._

And post.

Katrina knocked back the rest of the whiskey in her glass before topping it up. That should hopefully be enough to deter people – if not, there was always Mycroft and other people she knew because of her interesting job. Not that Mycroft would be keen, but… he was an option.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed in her coat.

She went and got it to find that of course there was a text from Mycroft. He was the only person that text her nowadays.

 _I won't be around for the next month or so._

 _-MH._

 _Why not?_

 _-KJ_

 _I am at work for one more day then I have to go to Serbia. One of our assets is currently there and I need to bring them back._

 _-MH._

Katrina frowned. She didn't know of anyone in Serbia, but then again there were some secrets that Mycroft really just couldn't tell her. Not that he told her any secrets – she was merely thinking about the fact that they worked at MI6. One would think she'd be a little more aware of what was going on around her.

 _All right. Why do you need to bring them back?_

 _-KJ_

 _Underground terrorist network in London. I'm going to need you to begin investigating too._

 _-MH._

 _It's going to be a long week, isn't it?_

 _-KJ_

 _More like a long month, unfortunately. The situation is rather delicate. I'll tell you more about it tomorrow._

 _-MH._

Katrina sank back down into her chair, and downed the whiskey once more. So London was in danger, Mycroft was _leaving_ the country to get someone who would most likely be more useful than her in this sort of situation, and she also had to have a poke around too. Brilliant. She wondered if this extended beyond her job description, but then again Katrina was part of the security of the country.

Anything that breached that security, she would have to know about it.

She poured the last of the whiskey and finished it off.

It was going to be a long month without Mycroft indeed.

* * *

 **Short chapter again, but the next few are going to be super long. I think you can guess why. WE'RE THERE AT LAST KIDS. SHERLOCK IS FINALYL COMING BACK.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	18. The Empty Hearse: Return

As long as months could go, October was definitely a long one like Mycroft had promised.

It was hard to pin down exactly who was doing what in regards to the terrorist network, but they had narrowed down the suspects to five different people. Now they were just under surveillance until they did something that was out of the ordinary.

For the most part, it was fairly straightforward but also boring as hell. Although Katrina couldn't help but notice that one of their suspects shared a name with Sebastian Moran, but they bore no resemblance so she passed it off as a fluke; she proceeded to wonder about Sebastian instead. He hadn't been in contact with her for over a year. Maybe they were never bound to meet again.

They all worked late. Katrina had been tasked with changing up the security system every few nights just to make sure nothing was leaked, and it became the most annoying thing she'd ever have to do in her life.

It had reached a point where Mrs Hudson was having to do Katrina's shopping and occasionally cook food for her – the MI6 worker spent most of her weekends sleeping excessively to make up for the late nights.

Then came a strange time towards the end of October.

Normally she would sleep for a few hours, but sleep barely came to Katrina at all that night, not with the day that she'd had.

First off, Mycroft was back, but he wasn't to be disturbed. Normally she could walk right up to his office, knock on the door and be given entry; today, she could barely get past Anthea. Frustrated and beyond tired, Katrina couldn't help but roll her eyes when she received a text from the man himself.

 _Apologies. Dealing with the asset.  
_ _-MH._

Something was certainly a little fishy about that. Maybe there wasn't. All Katrina could admit to was missing her friend.

She rolled into 221B far later than what her normal was nowadays - sometime around one in the morning - and didn't bother turning on the lights. Instead she literally dropped off her coat, kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the sofa face first. After a moment or two she rolled onto her back and pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a deep sigh.

There was a dull ache in her eyes, working its way to her forehead. Great. Because she needed a headache on top of all this.

"Would you like me to fetch you the ibuprofen from the bathroom cupboard?" A voice said in the darkness of the living room. Katrina jumped up immediately in a fright, only to topple onto the floor in the process.

"What the fuck? How the hell did you get in here?! Who are you?!" She reeled off those questions in quick succession.

The small amount of light that had filtered in from the street allowed her to see a tall figure rise from where the blue armchair was and come over to her. She scurried backwards only to hit the sofa and realised, that as this person gently put their hands on her, they were trying to help her up. She let them.

They wandered towards the door. "I think you know the answers to all of those questions."

The lights were flicked on and Katrina squinted before her eyes focused on the beaten up face of Sherlock Holmes.

That was the second reason why she had difficulty sleeping that night.

The pounding in her head only seemed to increase, and her breath hitched in her throat for quite some time before she remembered that breathing was actually important. Whatever emotions crossed her face - shock, fear, anger, joy - did not come as a surprise to Sherlock.

Katrina's mouth opened and closed several times as she tried to find something to say, but finding nothing at all. Her lips eventually drew into a thin line.

"Two years," she finally said. "Two years and you didn't think to-" Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. It _was_ you. In Hyde Park that day, it was you!"

"I made a mistake. Mycroft told me-"

"Mycroft?!" Katrina's voice was shrill and she closed the gap between them, squaring up to him. "Mycroft knew all this time?" The disbelief laced her voice like poison to wine, and the guilt fell heavy on Sherlock's face.

"He had to know."

"Did John know?"

"No. That's why I'm all..." He made gestures to his face and Katrina stepped back. How hard had John laid into Sherlock? Too hard, by the looks of things. She noticed how Sherlock wasn't standing as straight as he could be, and she wondered whether that had all been John or someone else.

"I saw you jump," she then muttered, tears in her eyes. "I used to have conversations with you inside my head... I ran - I ran after you that day, and I thought I was going mad - even more mad than I already was. And… Mycroft knew? All this time? – I can't be annoyed with that, someone had to know… although… no – I am annoyed, he's my – he's my friend…"

She'd started pacing back and forth, so Sherlock was watching her, bemused.

"You're talking to yourself, Kat," he said.

Her movements were so quick that all he knew was pain in the middle of his face and then the floor. She'd decked him hard enough that she broke his nose even more than it was already broken. Sherlock held his hand underneath it, catching all the fresh blood now spilling out of it, and stared up at her.

"Do _not_ call me 'Kat,'" she said, absolutely seething; he could see her chest rising and falling quite dramatically. "You've lost that right. You made me borderline catatonic that day!"

Sherlock stood up, swaying a little bit. "And Mycroft had to pick up the pieces..." he mumbled. "I'm aware. You know he exiled me for that, right?"

"I have _no_ pity for you!" she shouted at him. He didn't dare shush her, because he knew she'd just punch him again. "Absolutely none of it! What's different now? Why are you back _now_?"

"You know why." His voice was still quiet as he wandered into the kitchen to get himself a tissue so he could clean up his face. "You're clever, Katrina. Think."

The breath hissed out from between her teeth. "You're the asset he was talking about. The one he was bringing back. Jesus fucking Christ..." she concluded after a few moments.

"Apparently so. I wasn't aware that he had referred to me as such." Sherlock grunted, making his way back into the living room wiping off his face and hands.

"Is Mycroft expecting us to work together?"

"I'm not sure."

"Because I really don't want to," Katrina said. "I went through too many emotions with you, and I'm not about to do it again."

Sherlock winced, and she frowned.

"I… I heard you that night. When you saw me..." He lowered his hand from his face so that he could look Katrina in the eye properly. She was doing a fine job of holding back her tears, and instead she just looked angry. As angry as he ever remembered her. "That you were still in love with me."

There was a heaviness in the room, now, because Katrina didn't say anything for quite some time. Sherlock looked at her – observed her – and remembered the last time he did so. He wanted to make those deductions again, to see if anything had changed.

While she formulated an answer, that is exactly what he did.

Her hair, while still messily curly was somehow neater than usual. She had managed to tame it a little. It was shinier. She'd switched her shampoo in the past two years and had finally found one that was worth using for an extended amount of time. The flatness in her hair, however, told him that she'd not washed it today but the day before.

Her eyes were red, not from illness but tiredness. Broken sleep pattern and long hours. Her skirt suit was still straight despite the fact she had been sitting down for most of the day – she'd ironed it this morning before going to work. She took the tube now. She barely used her motorcycle.

Her nails were trim and precise but the cuticles were torn apart. Stress. Anxiety. Her shoes were over a year old but in good condition. A few scuff marks here and there from the occasional trip up, but–

"Stop it," she spat at him. "It's obvious what you're doing, so just _stop it._ " Katrina went quiet again, taking a deep breath and finally coming out with something relevant. "Maybe I was in love with you at a point before then and I lied to you down the phone about it. Maybe I used John to get over that, and I'm so – I was _awful_ for doing that. Maybe there was a time I had pushed you from my mind and made myself better, so I _didn't_ have to deal with those feelings. And then they all came flooding back in that one day."

"What about now? You know… you know how I feel about sentiment. Not – not sentiment in general, but… _that_ type of it."

"Do you mean romantic feelings, Sherlock?" She folded her arms.

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course I do."

"So what about now, indeed? I don't have them. I got over it. Again. The only reason they've not come back is because I know you're you and you're real. I'm not confused and borderline catatonic."

Sherlock nodded. "Naturally. You were… you weren't in your right mind at the time. I completely understand that."

"Good… I'm glad you get that," Katrina nodded too, albeit a little awkwardly. Neither of them said anything, but both were aware of the odd moment that just passed between them. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something but he changed his mind, instead going to bin the bloodied up tissue and hang up his coat.

"I assume you sleep in my old room?"

That jolted Katrina out of whatever she was thinking about. "Yeah. Um, all of John's stuff is gone so the room upstairs is just… spare." She realised now that she was about to let him sleep on the sofa. Of course she'd let him – as much as she wanted to kick him out, Katrina couldn't find it in her to deny Sherlock of his home. "I'll get you a pillow though, for the sofa."

She wandered off through the kitchen and towards the bedroom, before hurrying back into the living room with the pillow to see him settling into his old blue chair. Katrina felt her heart pang at that sight. She tossed it at the sofa.

 _What the hell was she doing?_

"Um, so, around Christmas I did a bit of clearing up – I don't know if you can tell, I mean – all your experiments are no longer in the kitchen… um… all your stuff is in John's old room, clothes and all. I couldn't… I couldn't throw it away. I could only get that far."

Being an idiot, that's what the hell she was doing.

"Right. Thank you." Sherlock's brow knitted together as he watched her hurry off to get ready for bed. He gave her a curt nod in thanks, and before she could disappear once more, he said: "It's good to… be back..."

He trailed off, not quite wanting to admit the truth and she gave him a funny look over her shoulder before disappearing into the bedroom.

On that note, Sherlock went upstairs to what was now deemed 'the spare room' and switched on the light, glancing around at all the neatly labelled boxes before he found the one that said 'pyjamas.' Satisfied with the joggers and t-shirt he found, Sherlock made his way back down to the bathroom and proceeded to get changed.

The minute he took off his jacket and shirt, he stared at himself in the mirror. His body was littered with deep purple bruises, that were not going to go away any time soon. Before he could put his t-shirt on, the bathroom door that led to his old bedroom opened up and Katrina walked in in her own bed clothes.

"Oh!" she was slightly startled by his state of undress, but when she really took him in: "Oh… Jesus Christ..."

Katrina backed out of the room and closed the door, opting to get straight into bed instead, not bothering with pain killers at all. There was no way John could have done all that…

A few minutes later Sherlock came in with a glass of water and the packet of ibuprofen, wordlessly leaving them on her bedside table.

She quietly took the medication and lay down in bed, her mind going into overdrive as she switched off the lamp.

How was any of this happening?

Sherlock Holmes was alive and well, and he was lying on the sofa in the living room. All because Mycroft wanted him back to help investigate the underground terrorist network. To help her. He'd cover more ground.

Katrina didn't want to work with Sherlock. She didn't want to be thrown back into that old life of hers. She was quite content with now; the life that she had worked for. There was no telling if Sherlock waltzing into it would mess it up. She hoped it didn't. She hoped he'd respect her space. If she was being brutally honest, she didn't want to be near him.

 _Two years…_

Two whole bloody years and then some. How was she supposed to react to that? Like everything was fine and dandy and that she hadn't been in some serious pain when it initially happened?

She didn't even want to think about Mycroft at this moment in time either.

The Holmes boys were in some deep shit with her now.

* * *

A few days later, Katrina decided it would be best if she left the bedroom before midday, so as not to appear lazy. Despite the fact it was a Friday morning and she should have actually been at work, the lack of sleep had meant she'd slept through her alarm and now there was really no point in her going in now. She sent an apology text to Patricia at around about eleven.

She'd managed to avoid most contact with Sherlock, besides passing him on her way back in from work. She knew he was making headway with the terror alert, and knew better than to interrupt him. Besides, she hadn't really wanted to talk to him anyway.

At quarter past eleven, Katrina got out of bed and trudged her way out to the kitchen, totally unaware of the fact both Sherlock and his brother were staring at her quite intently as she prepared a cup of coffee. Upon making her way into the living room, she finally noticed Mycroft.

Ever since Sherlock had popped up, she had been avoiding Mycroft like the plague at work.

She took a sip of her coffee and set it down on the desk, glaring daggers at the elder Holmes. Mycroft's lips pursed together and he stood up, so as to have a more equal, balanced confrontation with her.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" he asked her.

"Shouldn't you?" she retorted. "I crashed out too hard last night because I've not been able to get my head around all this crap. Why else do you think I've been avoiding you?"

"Katrina… you must understand why I couldn't tell you," he started off, "It was to protect you. I said I would… _try_ to protect you."

"That was in regards to something else and you know that," she replied in a dangerously quiet voice. "Glad you got your asset back, Mycroft?"

"Are we really going into this _now_?"

"You lied to me," her voice went low again for a second. "For two years, you _lied_ to me."

Mycroft's gaze dropped to the floor, almost ashamed of himself. "I did. And I'm so terribly–"

"Don't you fucking dare, Mycroft! You _lied to me!_ " Her volume increased, and Katrina made a swift move towards the man as if she were about to punch him, but then Sherlock's arms were suddenly around her and pulling her back. She wrestled out of his grip. "Don't you touch me. Don't you even _think_ about touching me," she jabbed a finger at him. "You have lost… you have lost that right." Katrina had managed to calm down enough to say that.

Sherlock accepted that, and immediately went to sit down in his chair again, Mycroft going to sit opposite him in the red chair. Neither of them said anything, both knowing that they were in the wrong – that they had hurt her more than they could possibly imagine.

Katrina picked up her coffee and more or less started chugging on it. She gave the desk a quick once over before tossing a woolly hat at Sherlock and retrieving her laptop (it had been underneath it) and making her way back towards the bedroom. She didn't fancy sharing their company as of right now.

She went about her routine that would have occurred on the Saturday, most of which involved milling about on the internet and catching up with various social media, not that she had many accounts. Occasionally she would flip to her blog, but no inspiration struck. Not even now that Sherlock was back.

Why would he bring up any inspiration whatsoever?

Unless she just wanted to write about the fact he was back.

Except he wasn't exactly known to the world again just yet.

Okay, maybe she'd have to keep that under wraps for now…

It was all a bit conflicting.

Eventually, some time after she'd showered and dressed, there was a knock on her bedroom door, and then Sherlock poked his head in all suited and booted, just like normal.

"Can I help you?" Katrina asked dryly.

"Well, since my conversation with John didn't go so well a few days ago, I was wondering if you wanted to go solve a crime?"

"Right… right… because our conversation this morning and the other night went so well too?" she quipped back sarcastically, an eyebrow raised. "You want me to stand in for John?"

Sherlock sighed and properly came into the room. "You never stood in for John before. You were just… _you._ Quite unapologetically, I might add. I value your input."

"Do you now?" Katrina snapped her laptop shut and rose from the bed, facing Sherlock. She was a couple of inches off of being the same height as him – she'd forgotten that fact. "Have you always valued my input or are you just trying to sugar coat me so I'm not angry with you anymore? Because it doesn't work like that, Sherlock."

He blinked. "I always valued it. You have keen eyes, and you're more equipped than I am to deal with the more… _emotional_ clients."

"You are aware that in the current moment, you make my stomach churn."

"Yes."

"That I actually really want to hit you again?"

"Yes."

"And that I'm still bloody mad at you about everything?"

"Why wouldn't you be mad at me?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Good. Now that we're on the same page, I'll help. I don't have anything to do today because I didn't go into work, and I'm bored."

Katrina led him out of the room and sat down in the red chair, watching as Sherlock eventually began to pace up and down the room, waiting for a client to come in.

"John saw Mrs Hudson the other day," he then said randomly.

"Oh?"

"To tell her he was getting married – did I mention that? Popped up to see him before you, and he was about to propose. Her name's Mary."

"Poor woman."

Sherlock hid a smirk from Katrina, knowing what her feelings about John were currently like. She noticed the map of London up on the wall, with five different photos – the people in the photos she recognised as the suspects that they'd been keeping an eye on at MI6.

"You've been doing a better job than we have," she commented, taking note of the crosses on three of the pictures. "Narrowing it down."

"My Homeless Network has it advantages," Sherlock replied, coming to stand in front of his masterpiece. "Better than cameras. They can go places where they can't."

"No kidding… Either way, I'm just rearranging security because your brother is paranoid. I barely have to keep tabs on those lot anyway."

"Ah yes, my _brother_ ," Sherlock turned to her, "Interesting stint you tried to pull this morning."

Her mouth dropped open. "You aren't seriously going to give me a lecture about nearly punching him, are you?"

"I may not like the man all that much, but he is my brother. It's all very well and good you punching me, but you say Mycroft is your friend. Do you punch your friends? No, you don't, as far as I'm aware."

"But do friends lie to each other, Sherlock?" She scowled at him. "I'm at perfect liberty to punch Mycroft if I want to. I punched you, didn't I? Don't start getting all sentimental about Mycroft on me, it doesn't suit you."

He narrowed his eyes at her, and the conversation stilted. The atmosphere in the rom became incredibly awkward, but they didn't have anything else to say to each other.

About ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Mrs Hudson brought up quite a stiff looking couple, and Sherlock set out the two desk chairs for them to sit on. The sofa still had his pillow and blanket on it – it was in no state to use.

The couple explained about a plight where all their money had gone missing from a shared bank account – one that only either of them could access. From where Sherlock was now sitting in the blue armchair, he shared a look with Katrina and she nodded once.

He stood up and buttoned up his jacket.

"...And absolutely no one should have been able to empty that bank account other than myself or Helen," explained the man.

"Mr Harcourt, why didn't you assume it was your wife?" Sherlock gave him a brief once over.

"Because I've always had _total_ faith in her."

"No, it's because _you_ emptied it. Weight loss, hair dye, Botox; affair," Sherlock pointed out each of the offending areas on Mr Harcourt, whipping out a card and handing it to Mrs Harcourt. "Lawyer. Next!"

* * *

 **SHERLOCK'S BACK! And Katrina is feeling ALL the things. Lots of them. It's a tricky situation, and I hope I managed to capture it well enough! I'm so glad to be writing these two together again, I have so much fun writing them and there are a lot of things in store!**

 **-Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	19. The Empty Hearse: Life Saver

So the day went on, one menial mystery after another.

Katrina couldn't tell if she was more bored now than she would have been if she had spent the day alone. Barely any of them were challenging and Sherlock kept solving them on the spot.

Eventually it got to a point where the clients thinned out and there was nobody else coming in. It had only been two hours, and Katrina felt drained.

"Well, at least you had me to hold the hand of the crying step-daughter..." she commented dryly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hmm, I leave you to do the emotional bits while I do the actual work."

"You know, you did say earlier that you valued my input, but then you really _did_ just leave me to do the _emotional bits._ Funny, Sherlock, fucking _hilarious..._ " she told him sarcastically.

"You want to make deductions Miss 'I'm a technician, not a detective?'"

She stared at him, bemused. "I'm surprised you remember that."

"Mind palace. You should really trying the method of loci some time, it might do you some good to extend your already... above average mind."

Katrina raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know any better, I believe that was a half arsed compliment, coming from you."

"I don't do compliments."

"You do – or at least you did – when you're trying to work your way into someone's good books. For all the good your mind palace does you, you completely forgot that I can _sometimes_ read people. I can tell when you're lying."

"Hmmph."

Before she could say anything else, Sherlock's phone buzzed and his attention was no longer on her.

"Ah! Lestrade wants us – me. Lestrade wants me to come and have a look at scene. Care to join?" He was already getting his coat on, and Katrina begrudgingly followed suit. She really had nothing else to do today. Well, she could go into work, but it was too late for that, and Mycroft wasn't exactly chasing her up about it anymore than he had done so earlier.

Although as of right now, Mycroft could go fuck himself for all she cared.

Katrina headed after Sherlock down and out onto the street where he hailed down a cab, and they journeyed towards the crime scene in question in silence. She had no desire to make idle conversation with him, not when she knew it would end in insulting each other. Sherlock had no need to make conversation with Katrina, because small talk was rather meaningless to him.

She didn't know where they had ended up, only that Lestrade led them down into a basement.

It was a rather dank basement, all cold stone walls and dust filled, yet a curious sight lay before them.

At the back wall was a skeleton sitting at a desk. Wearing a suit. There was a writing set in front of it, and all it did was remind Katrina of some silly joke she saw floating about the internet the other week.

"Somebody prepared for the skeleton war..." she muttered. The two men gave her odd looks. She rolled her eyes. "What? I get bored, I scroll through Reddit… Most adults do."

"Can't disagree there," Lestrade said. "Anyway, this one's got us all baffled."

"Mm. I don't doubt it," Sherlock replied, wandering over to the desk and starting to investigate in his usual manner.

Katrina knew that all the usual deductions would be spinning through his mind as he worked, and wondered whether it was worth going to make her own. Surely there would be a detail that she could pick up on that he wouldn't? It had been too long since they had been on an actual crime scene together, would anything be different now?

As she approached the desk to take a look at the skeleton, Sherlock glanced up at her, and any animosity earlier had vanished. He seemed surprised that she was actually participating.

"I thought you didn't do crime scenes. I thought you weren't a detective," he murmured, and for some reason her heart did that stupid fluttery thing. Mainly because he was referring to a conversation from a long time ago, just like he had done so earlier in the day. He remembered everything, and it was infuriating and incredible at the same time.

"You asked me to come along, didn't you?" Katrina responded just as quietly, risking a glance at Lestrade who was none the wiser to their hushed talk. "Might as well make myself useful. It's not like there's anyone _emotional_ to deal with." She crouched down by the skeleton, wondering whether or not she could touch it's hand.

"So, is it just gonna be you two, then?" Lestrade asked them. "No more John?"

Sherlock nearly jumped. "Possibly. I'm not sure. John's stance was um… well, the exact same as Katrina's, but she lives with me. Actually, more accurately I live with her." He cleared his throat. "Everything's a bit up in the air if you ask me."

Katrina didn't know what it was about his voice, but she was certain he was trying to mask some sort of emotion; she would ask him about it later, because his eyes betrayed him.

A faint rumbling came through the ceiling of the cement basement, causing dust and grit to gently fall down onto the three of them. Katrina dusted herself off, only slightly disgusted.

"Trains," Sherlock said. He squatted down next to the corpse too, and didn't move for some time.

Katrina took the opportunity to give the hands of the skeleton a closer inspection, and decided there was no harm in touching it. It didn't… feel like she would have expected bone to feel like. It felt like some sort of plastic.

"Uh… there's something not right about this," she started, finally noticing how Sherlock was now observing the skeleton.

"Shut up!" he said through gritted teeth. It wasn't directed at Katrina, but someone else who wasn't there. She wasn't taken aback by the outburst too much, but found it strange nonetheless.

He trailed his fingers along the neckline of the suit it was wearing, and then done along the edge of the desk, searching for something. "The skeleton can't be more than six months old."

Katrina frowned just as a half satisfied smile appeared on his face as he found what was looking for. There was a click, and he pulled a book out of the side of the desk. Standing up with Katrina, he blew the dust off the cover, rolled his eyes and handed it to her.

She sighed. " _How I Did It_ by Jack the Ripper. Funny." She slammed it down on top of the desk.

Sherlock suddenly flailed, saying "get out" in the same tone as he had said "shut up" in, previously. He took a deep breath. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it." He made his way towards the door.

"No, please – insult away!" Lestrade insisted. Sherlock faced him.

"The corpse is six months old; it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric," he got out his phone and started typing, "It was sold off in a fire-damage sale..." He showed them the screen, "A week ago."

"So… the whole thing was a fake?"

"Yep," Katrina said, going over to Sherlock.

"It looked so promising..."

"No," Katrina replied, just as Sherlock left the room. "Weirdly enough, I think he's got an idea who did it, and so have I."

She gave him a wry smile, and headed after Sherlock who was waiting for her out on the street. He hadn't hailed down a cab just yet, and instead he pulled her aside so that they could walk down the street together.

"You know who put that there, don't you?" he asked her.

Katrina shot him a look. "Yes. I do. Bloody Anderson..."

"I heard he more or less tried to accost you last month."

"And now I have to admit that he was right," Katrina told him coldly. "Out of all the things, it had to be to do with _you_ , didn't it?"

Sherlock didn't say anything – he couldn't say anything.

"You drove me half insane..." she muttered. "Anyway, what the hell was that all about back there? About everything being 'up in the air?'"

Again, he didn't say anything, and that only confirmed what Katrina had had a fleeting thought about. She put her arm out in front of Sherlock, thus stopping him from carrying on walking, and she grabbed him so she could turn him to face her.

"Yeah, I'm still fucking pissed off with you. I'm still fucking… I dunno – I don't know what the _hell_ my feelings are doing right now, but it's nothing good, Sherlock," Katrina paused a moment, choosing her next words carefully, "Either way, I'm not going anywhere. But you have to respect that I have some form of a life going on, with an _actual_ job, doing important stuff. I know I skipped out on Mycroft today, but I needed to. I can't always be around to help you with what _you_ do."

Sherlock gulped. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting Katrina to come out with that. He had expected her to tear into him again, shout at him, hit him – anything but choose kinder words said without malice.

"I think it's best if I go back home, now," she then added, quietly. "Leave you to do the rest of it – I need some breathing space."

He straightened up a little. "Of course. I'll see you in a few hours, I need to make one last trip and I'll be done for the day. Care for some chips later on?"

Katrina shrugged as she turned back towards the road and waved down a cab. "Sure. As long as it's from the place on Marylebone Road. Oh, Baker Street, please."

She got in the cab and shut the door, taking a breath. She couldn't bring herself to look out the window at Sherlock as she was driven off.

Sleep tried to catch up with Katrina on the journey back, and it was lucky that the cabbie called out their arrival. Once outside the door of 221B, she paid the guy and hopped out, and inside her home. She made a beeline for the desk, sank down at it, and sighed, her head in her hands.

Four days she'd known Sherlock had been alive all this time. Four days and it was still hard to get her head around.

Despite what she had said to him about not going anywhere, she realised that things were going to change yet again. Sherlock was back in his rightful home, and he would want things to shift back to how he knew them. He'd been dead for two years, and that meant probably not staying in one spot for too long. She'd have to ask him about that.

Katrina mentally slapped herself.

Why was she beginning to take an interest in him again? She was _mad at him,_ and wanted it to stay that way for a little longer, thanks very much.

A creak to her left had her looking towards the door. Her blood ran cold.

"What are you doing here?" Katrina asked accusingly. John glared at her from the doorway.

"I came to see Sherlock. Where is he?"

"Solving a case. So do come back later or at least drop the buggering sociopath a text instead of bothering me in my own home." She gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. "So get. Out."

"This isn't your home."

"Then why have I been living here for the past _year and a half_ _?_ " She stood from the desk and folded her arms as she turned to John, raising an eyebrow in the process. "Why didn't Sherlock kick me out as soon as he got back and I wasn't entirely accepting of his excuse?"

"You keep holding onto the past, Katrina, and that is why this place can never be your home," John mumbled, giving her a challenging look. She blanched for a moment, then managed to keep up her stern resolve.

"If I held onto the past so much, why did I never attempt to make it up with you? Riddle me that, John Watson."

He remained silent for a moment.

"You're a coward, maybe?"

"Because cowards like to ensure that their own mental health is in perfect condition? Oh yes. How very cowardly of me. How _selfish_ of me," Katrina whispered vehemently. "Besides, if I'm the coward who keeps trying to cling on to the past, then why did _you_ come back? Why did you come back to Baker Street after two years? Why visit Mrs Hudson after two years? Because you wanted to tell her you were planning on getting _married._ That, my dear Watson, is what selfish is. Using people for your own gains and you wanted Mrs Hudson to be _happy_ for you. Which in any other circumstance would have been fine, had it not been two years of no word from you. Get out. Just _get the_ _fuck out."_

Silence again.

"Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine."

"Just because you say something five times, doesn't mean it's true!"

"Fuck you."

And with that, he angrily began to make his way out of 221B.

Katrina cried out in frustration, and wondered if things would ever be right between them again. She looked out the window to see if he was still loitering for a cab, but instead she saw something quite harrowing.

Someone had just drugged John.

Going against her better judgement and instead following her morals, Katrina ran down the stairs and onto the street, where she saw the perpetrator dragging him into a nearby car. She called out to them, except a moment later she felt someone place their hand over her mouth and restrain her, taking her to a different vehicle instead.

She kicked and struggled but another man grabbed hold of her too, and these two people held her down in the car. They were far too strong for her, so in the end she gave up and closed her eyes, wishing that someone would find her. She wished that someone had at least _seen_ what had happened, but it was rush hour on a Saturday. Very few people would have been home at that point.

They then drugged her too.

She didn't know how long it had been, but when she came to, the sun had fully set. She was taken out of the car, right by Tower Bridge. They walked along it for a while, trying to look as normal as possible before wandering round the structure itself, as if they were going to cross it.

Instead, they led her towards a third man who promptly tied her hands and lifted her until she was on top of the barrier, the dirty Thames looking quite still beneath her.

He then attached a large weight to her ankles, and pushed her in.

She gasped as she went soaring down feet first, and eventually the river consumed her.

Slowly, she sank down. It was lucky that there weren't any approaching boats nearby.

No matter how hard Katrina struggled against her bonds, she knew she would be unable to escape them. And the freezing watery dungeon of the Thames slowly began to suffocate her. It was just like Jim Moriarty all over again, except there wasn't anybody on standby to actually make sure she didn't fade away into death. She thought _that_ had been pure torture – but no, _this_ was pure torture and she was frightened and losing oxygen faster than anybody would be able to find her.

The weights hit the bottom of the river, and she floated up a little bit, but still nowhere near the surface of the murky water. A tightening in her chest told her that she was on her last dregs of oxygen, and that was the point where she started to properly get frantic about getting out of this situation, desperate to loosen the weights from her feet and hurry back up to river surface where she could get that, sweet, wonderful oxygen that would keep her alive.

But _no_.

The struggle had to end and so in she breathed the bacteria-riddled water and just simply let go of everything, blackness coming round to the edge of her vision...

 _...The next thing Katrina knew, she was inside 221B. Home, but wet from the water. She was dripping it everywhere. She saw Sherlock rise from his armchair._

" _What are you doing?" he asked her._

" _I'm dying."_

" _Obviously. I meant why are you letting yourself die?"_

" _Because there's nobody here to save me." Monotone Katrina._

" _What if John had told me about you being dragged off by those men?"_

" _Then John will weedle his way back into my good books if I live."_

" _When you live," he corrected her. "Why are you so ready to die?"_

" _I should have died two years ago. When he tried to drown me to get answers from me."_

" _Never. What would Sherlock think?"_

" _He wouldn't care."_

" _Oh? I wouldn't care?" he raised an eyebrow at her._

" _You're just in my mind because I'm incapable of being sane!" she cried out._

However before the argument could continue further, Katrina gave Sherlock a pained look before slowly crumpling to the ground, feeling the life really begin to fade from her; feeling hazy. Then she was jolted back to reality; back to the Thames river. Her eyes were shut and she could _barely_ feel, but she could tell someone was untying the weights from her feet.

Then she was being pulled to the surface.

Feeling still there, but only a flicker of it. It still carried on leaving her as she was dragged through the water to the pebbly, sandy bank. Fingers pressed themselves to the side of her neck – she still had a pulse, it seemed?

She felt several compressions against her chest – was that _hurting_ her?

She didn't know how many of those there were, but then she felt someone breathing life into her, before going back to what they were originally doing.

"Katrina _"_ said a familiar voice. _"_ Don't _you_ dare... _"_

She knew those words. She'd said them before. She'd said them earlier, hadn't she?

Why couldn't she wake up? She wanted to. She wanted to know who had dragged her out of the river. But she was losing her grasp on reality, and suddenly everything just stopped.

"Two years ago… don't make the same mistake I did..."

Suddenly–

 _SMACK!_

It jolted her enough to make her spew out all the water in her system and down her front. She lay on her back, still coughing and adjusting her vision as the blackness cleared from her mind – and the sudden cold of the air hit her very bones. She had grown accustomed to the water in that short time and it had sort of been... warm. Her chest ached.

Eventually, she brought herself to look at her silent saviour, still coughing.

Sherlock Holmes.

Sans coat and jacket, his white shirt clinging to him and his curly locks plastered to his head, droplets of water coming from his face.

"Katrina...?"

That was all he needed to say before she launched herself onto him, shaking from the cold and from fear, latching onto his shirt and burying her face in his chest. Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around her and she had never felt more comforted in her life. Beneath the wet smell of the river, she could detect that chemical smell that always seemed to radiate from him; that minty smell from his breath; that odd lime smell she had put down to whatever product he washed his hair with.

The minute she began shaking, Sherlock let go of her for a moment to reach behind him and grabbed his jacket, putting it around her before he added his coat to her too. She looked as if she were about to lose consciousness again, so he tapped her on the face to get her attention on him.

"Katrina, stay with me," Sherlock scooped up into his arms and stood up, making his way towards the steps that would lead him off of the shore.

"Sh – Sherlock..." she spluttered.

"I've got you – I'll always find you, alright?" Sherlock knew Katrina needed words of comfort right now. She appeared to calm down a little after that, which sent some relief through Sherlock.

The full sense of relief came when he saw his brother standing by a parked car, and he hurried towards it. Mycroft opened the back doors and Sherlock placed Katrina inside first, before getting in himself. He moved her so that her head was resting on his lap.

Mycroft sat in the front passenger seat, mumbled a few words to the driver and they sped off.

"How long was she in there?"

"I'm not sure. She was pretty much dead by the time I got there. Oxygen deprivation takes six minutes to make a person brain dead, water inhalation takes the maximum of three minutes to have someone out cold."

"Somewhere between three and six minutes, if we go by that, despite the fact they are two different types of drowning. The Thames is partially salt water, so–"

"–She could have been in there for up to ten minutes, no oxygen deprivation to take into account," Sherlock sighed.

"Medical attention?"

"Possibly. She coughed it all–" Sherlock was interrupted by Katrina spewing more water down her front. "I believe that's all of it. You may want to clean the car."

"I think it would be wise if we took her somewhere now."

"Home," Katrina said quietly, her voice raspy. "I want to go home."

They knew better than to argue with her.

"Take her to a doctor tomorrow morning, would you?" Mycroft finally said. Not only did he say it because Katrina would rather have the safety of her own home at this current moment, but it seemed like his brother didn't want to let the woman go. He wouldn't deny him that.

"I will."

The remainder of the drive back to 221B was in silence, and Sherlock barely even gave a thank you as he got out of the car. Mycroft ended up letting them in to make things easier, and Sherlock raced up the stairs and to the bedroom, where he gently set Katrina down on the floor. She was more awake, but she also looked rather dead at the same time.

He peeled his coat and jacket away from her, tossing them to the side and going to grab her a towel and fresh clothing. She was able to take the towel herself and wrap it around her, while Sherlock found another one and ran up to the spare room so that he could sort himself out quickly. He didn't want to be helping Katrina while as equally wet as her.

When he was dry, he made his way back to her, to find she was still sitting on the floor in her wet clothes, not doing anything. She seemed a little out of it, now. He couldn't blame her.

"Katrina..." Sherlock crouched next to her. "Do you want me to help?"

She nodded, and for the next ten minutes, Sherlock carefully helped Katrina get out of her clothes, dry off, and put on her pyjamas, all the while being sensitive of the fact that he was handling her naked body. Handling her naked body when she hadn't wanted him to touch her. If there was one thing he did notice, was that her measurements hadn't changed from what they had been two years ago. Sherlock figured that was a good sign.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind rather quickly, realising how inappropriate it was given the current situation. He didn't know what to think. Yes, he had rationalised it all but they were in such close proximity, and if Katrina was in any way uncomfortable with that, she was doing a tremendous job of hiding it.

Her hair was simply damp by the time he had gotten her into clothing. As soon as he was done, Katrina made to stand and get into bed, which proved a struggle. Sherlock helped her with that too, not saying a word the entire time.

He went to leave, not sure what else to do now, but she took hold of his hand and shuffled to the opposite side of the bed.

Sherlock didn't get in under the covers beside her, but simply lay on top of them, not letting go of Katrina's hand at all.

He barely slept that night, because he wanted to make sure Katrina was alright. She managed to sleep for quite some time, but then around about four o'clock in the morning she bolt upright in bed, complaining of chest pains.

She became rather frantic, a state in which Sherlock had never seen her in before. She wouldn't stop crying either.

"Katrina – Katrina, I will phone for an ambulance alright? It won't take long for it to get here, only eight minutes."

Nope. Still frantic.

Sherlock went to kneel in front of her on the bed, taking hold of her shoulders. "Kat," he breathed, "Kat, can you hold on for approximately eight minutes?"

She stopped her fussing the minute he said the name 'Kat,' and that was when Sherlock knew he had gotten through to her. A pet name that stirred so many different emotions in that woman was how to get her attention.

"Okay… You're going to be fine."

He was hasty in going to retrieve his phone from his jacket that was discarded on the floor, and as he called the appropriate number and explained the situation, Sherlock handed Katrina his coat and turned on the light.

They waited in silence on the bed, and Katrina kept on shifting precisely every twelve seconds in discomfort. Sherlock pulled the woman towards him, knowing how afraid she was in that moment.

"You're going to be fine," he repeated, squeezing his arm a little tighter around her.

* * *

 **I feel like I know too much about drowning and the various consequences that come with it now. I read so much stuff, but I still probably got a few bits wrong... ah well. It's a weird one, that one. Wet drowning, dry drowning, still being able to drown after being pulled out of the water... yep. Possibilities are endless.**

 **Also: I'm so sorry I'm not nice to Katrina. That'll stop soon. Kinda. Shhh.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	20. The Empty Hearse: Train Tracks

By midday, they were back at Baker Street. For all his lack of sleep, Sherlock looked perfectly fine, whereas Katrina was half asleep on him in the cab on the way back home. He aided her in walking up the stairs, and led her to sit in the blue armchair, where he knew she'd feel most comfortable.

They hadn't even been back for five minutes before Mrs Hudson came running into the room, more worried than anyone could possibly want her to be.

"Oh thank goodness you're both back! The sirens woke me up, is everything alright?" She was wringing her hands together, in a little bit of a state about their disappearance.

"Everything's fine, Mrs Hudson, I believe Katrina just wants peace and quiet right now but your shrill voice won't be helping with that," Sherlock stated matter of factly, exiting the room to go upstairs.

Mrs Hudson looked rather put out.

"I'll be alright, Mrs Hudson. Ignore him," Katrina said quietly, giving her a gentle smile. That seemed to ease the elder woman.

"Well, if you need anything dear, I'm only downstairs."

Katrina nodded and Mrs Hudson left just as Sherlock came back in, now wearing a jacket.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you," she told him.

He shrugged, and buttoned up the jacket. "Anyone would have done it..." he muttered as he began pacing the room.

"How did you find me?"

"Mary was receiving anonymous texts. Puzzles. It was a matter of figuring them out."

Katrina frowned. "Mary?"

"Yes, she first informed me of John's disappearance, which I'm assuming you witnessed and were promptly taken yourself. Interesting how they didn't drown you at the same time they tried to burn John – they waited until we had found him and made sure he was safe before they did anything to you. They were testing me, whoever it was."

"They tried to _burn_ John?"

"In a Guy Fawkes bonfire, I might add." Sherlock's pacing brought him to the window, where he blanched.

"What is it?"

He sighed. "I would ask you to leave the room but currently making you angrier than you already are is a bad idea, you barely move on your own as it is, and surprisingly enough I _do_ have some sort of tact."

A few minutes later, an elderly couple made their way into 221b and the minute they saw Sherlock went to hug him. Katrina's mouth dropped open, and before anything was said she managed to figure out who those people were.

Clearly, they were his parents.

And they were the exact opposite of what she had been expecting.

"Maybe, I should give you guys some privacy..." Katrina began to rise out of her chair, but then Mrs Holmes turned to her.

"Nonsense! You stay there, Katrina."

There was something so commanding about the woman's tone that Katrina was a little bit frightened. In a good way. She slowly sank back down into her chair.

"And Sherlock, if what happened yesterday really did happen, why is there not a cup of tea in her hand?"

Katrina bit her lip and tried not to laugh at the look on Sherlock's face.

"If I'm making one for Katrina, would either of you like one?" he asked his parents as they settled on the sofa. They shook their heads, and Sherlock went to potter about in the kitchen, leaving Katrina with his parents.

"I apologise if I sound rude, but did you both know about his… uhhh, _dealings_ for the past two years?" she asked them.

"Yes we did," Mrs Holmes answered. It appeared she did all of the talking, while Mr Holmes was quite content to be the quiet one. "Not that I approved, but he's managed to put the world to rights _somehow._ "

"Huh..." Katrina mused, as Sherlock came back in and handing her a steaming cup. "Good to know he had all the right people in the know."

Sherlock scowled at her as he plonked himself down into the red chair, detecting her bitter tone.

Katrina ignored him and silently sipped on her tea as Sherlock had a little catch up with his parents. She'd only gotten about halfway through the tea when she placed it on the little coffee table in front of her and leaned back, shutting her eyes. She didn't intend to fall asleep, but she woke up in bed.

She could still hear voices in the living room, but they were both male. No female voice at all.

She got out of bed, glad for her now renewed strength, and made her way out. Sherlock and John were staring at something on a laptop, discussing it at length. Katrina had a feeling that she knew what they were talking about, but they were so engrossed in it they didn't notice her come in.

She cleared her throat and they turned round.

"Oh good! You're up," Sherlock commented. "Feeling better?"

"Much."

"Our rat's come out," he then said.

"Our… rat?" Katrina raised an eyebrow.

"Katrina, I know you've just woken up but honestly I would expect you to know better."

She looked at his wall – with all the pictures, the map of London – and made a few simple connections. All she had to do was find the pictures of the original suspects, and then see who it had been narrowed down to. Her mouth formed an 'o' when she finally realised.

"So Lord Moran is _the_ rat we've been looking for – sorry I take longer to get with it than you..." she muttered, not bothering to give him an actual answer just yet. She couldn't take her eyes off of John. "Can we talk? And I mean talk; not shout, or swear, and no slammed doors or packed suitcases."

John's hands balled up, but he turned round in his seat and nodded none the less. "Yep. That sounds like a good idea to me. Sherlock, do you mind…?"

Sherlock glanced between his friends. "Right! Right… I'll go see if Mrs Hudson…" he didn't finish his sentence and instead headed off downstairs, leaving the two of them alone.

"You… came after me, last night. Heard you calling my name," John started off.

"As much as I dislike you, I _do_ have morals," Katrina found couldn't look him in the eye. She stared at her feet instead.

"Sherlock disappeared almost right away, once he got me out of that bonfire." He stood up and went over to Katrina. "Look at me. I'm not going to carry on this conversation until you look at me."

She did as he requested, although she was very guarded.

"Did they hurt you?"

Katrina clucked her tongue. "They drowned me. Third time in two years, that's happened. Shouldn't have even happened once."

John was rather taken aback. "Jesus Christ… I'm… I'm so sorry." He reached out to Katrina as if he were about to hug her, but thought better of it. He wanted to ask about the second time that he didn't know about, but realised that was a question for a later date. "I was out of line," he then said all of a sudden.

"So was I."

"Let me finish – look, you had every right to do what you wanted. To kick me out of your home because you weren't you didn't feel like yourself. You had to do what you thought was best for yourself and if kicking me out was it, then I understand that now. And I'm sorry I was such… an arsehole," John paused for a moment. "I'm sorry I wasn't more… I dunno, attentive about the fact you'd been through a bit of trauma before Sherlock jumped off the roof. I'm sorry I broke a promise I made to Sherlock about looking after you."

"I think that last one was more for him, but I appreciate it," she chuckled. "I'm sorry I used you… I felt so wrong saying that I loved you – romantically – because I didn't. I was still… well, I think you know who I was still had feelings for at that point. I used to use sex as a coping mechanism," she sighed. "Dear god, I've had some interesting liaisons in the past two years… but uh… Mycroft told me that information has to be classified."

John raised an eyebrow. "Even if it weren't, I wouldn't wanna know would I?"

"Nope."

He hummed. "You're not a bitch, Katrina."

"And you're not a coward."

"So are we good?"

"Yeah… yeah, we're good." She wrapped her arms around him, finally at ease with John, and glad to have him back as a friend. He returned the hug with equal enthusiasm, and smiled into the slightly taller woman's shoulder.

After a minute or two, they pulled away from each other.

"Good. Because he's been going on about you coming with us today." John gestured towards the door, referring to Sherlock.

"Of course he has. I'll go clean myself up, then."

"You're actually coming?"

"Why not? If the rat is out, then I want to see this through to the end."

"What?"

"Don't you know? I work for Mycroft now."

John was stumped. "Should have seen that one coming."

Katrina laughed at him as she wandered to the bathroom. Normal. This felt a lot more normal, now. It was so easy to slip back an old routine, but she was still feeling heavily guarded about Sherlock.

In the shower, she pondered over the fact that she had made up with John and how easy it had been. Strange; although, it did mean less stress for everyone.

About half an hour later, she joined Sherlock and John in the kitchen, where they were on Skype to a man in a bobble hat – the same hat that had been occupying Sherlock's desk a few days ago.

"Hang on, hang on – Sumatra Road," he said. Katrina frowned, realising that she was still out of the loop. "You mentioned Sumatra Road, Mr Holmes." She watched the man reach for something off screen. "There _is_ something. I _knew_ it rang a bell. Where is it?" He pulled an open book towards his own computer. "There _was_ a station down there."

"Well, why isn't it on the maps?" John asked.

"'Cause it was closed before it ever opened."

"What?"

"Wait – why are we looking for a tube station?" Katrina spoke up.

"A tube carriage went missing somewhere between St James Park and Westminster. Lord Moran popped up out of Westminster station today – he was _on_ that carriage. Today is the vote on the anti-terrorism bill, I'm sure you can work out the rest," Sherlock explained to her quickly before turning his attention back to the laptop.

The man on screen held up the book. "They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes, so they never built the station on the surface." He pointed at a spot on the page, causing Sherlock to draw back once more.

"It's right underneath the Palace of Westminster," he muttered, beginning to walk away to grab his coat.

"What is? A… oh god..." Katrina started going after him, as did John, who left the laptop open.

"A bomb. Jesus Christ," he said.

"All of this – the past month at work, all of it because someone wants to blow up Parliament!" Katrina's voice rose as they all made their way down towards the street. "And here I was, hoping it was going be something only _slightly_ more drastic than a security leak."

"Fifth of November and all," John said.

"I won't lie, I've been losing track of the dates."

Sherlock hailed down a cab and they piled in. Within twenty minutes, they were at Westminster tube station, surprisingly not that packed for a Saturday evening. The good thing was that it was packed enough for them to sneakily vault over one of the barriers without getting caught by a security guard.

Well, they did get caught. They were seen, but they managed to blend into the crowd the other side and not get _physically_ caught.

"So the tube carriage is carrying a bomb?" John clarified.

"Must be," Sherlock replied as the three of them moved towards the escalators in order to get down to the Circle and District lines. During that time, John got out his phone. "What are you doing?"

"Calling the police."

"What? No!"

"Sherlock, if you don't let him call the police, I'm getting hold of Mycroft before we lose signal," Katrina told him.

"Parliament needs to be evacuated," John added.

"They'll just get in the way!" Sherlock protested. "They always do."

Katrina was shaking her head, but Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at her and winked. Before they reached the bottom of the escalator and lost signal, she pulled out her phone and sent a quick text to Mycroft.

 _Bomb under Parliament. Sumatra Road._

 _-KJ._

It was lucky it sent a moment before her service cut out.

"This is cleaner, efficient," Sherlock carried on as they walked down a corridor and up to a locked gate. He pulled out a crowbar from his coat.

"Sorry, where the fuck did that come from?" Katrina pointed at the tool.

Sherlock shrugged. "Had it handy. I thought we'd have to break in somewhere," he said, using it to force open the lock on the gate. Passersby barely gave them a second glance – this was London, they would have somewhere more important to be instead of paying three idiots attention on the underground.

"This is also illegal," John murmured.

"A bit."

The lock broke and they made their way inside, closing the gate shut behind them. In front of them was a fairly steep staircase, and while Sherlock and John had torches on them to light the way – Katrina wondered what sort of arsenal they kept on them on a daily basis – she used her phone light.

"Ladies first," Sherlock gestured to the stairs, and she glared at him before making her way down into the maintenance tunnel. The two men followed behind her and she let Sherlock take the lead down the tunnels once they were altogether.

Eventually, they ended up at Sumatra Road.

Except it was empty.

"I don't understand." Sherlock seemed shocked.

"Well, that's a first!" John replied sarcastically, and it jolted Katrina a little – then she remembered that he was still as pissed off as she was with Sherlock, but just not showing it as much.

"There's nowhere else it could be..." he trailed off, and stood still, shutting his eyes and going into his mind palace. The other two watched him for a moment, and then– "Oh!"

He ran towards the end of the platform and jumped off of it, landing between the rails.

"Isn't that live?" John asked.

"He's not touching the rails," Katrina said, hopping down onto the track herself. "Come on. It's fine."

They followed Sherlock down yet another tunnel, somewhat reminiscent of a previous case they had worked on. Instead of walking straight on, however, they curved round a bend where lo and behold, a tube carriage awaited them underneath a vent.

"John. Katrina." Sherlock's voice came from ahead of them, and they hurried towards him and followed the line of sight his torch beam was going: up above them were several small explosive attached to the walls and ceiling of the tunnel and vent.

"Oh god..." Katrina sighed, her heart beginning to race. She looked at John, and saw panic flicker across his face for a brief moment.

They headed into the carriage through the end door to find it completely empty.

"Nothing," John said. "Absolutely nothing."

"Isn't there?" Sherlock had spotted something, and he pulled back one of the seats. Explosives. They checked more of the seats to the find the same – wired up explosives everywhere.

"It's not _carrying_ explosives – this whole thing _is_ the bomb."

"We need bomb disposal," John was not impressed by any means, not even when Sherlock was beginning to check the floor with his feet.

The detective noticed it was loose towards the centre of the carriage and pulled it back, to see what could only be the main explosive source. The three of them crouched down around it.

"There may not be time for that now," he said.

"So what do we do?"

"I text Mycroft – it should have gone through before I lost signal. I mean… I – I hope it did..." Katrina's voice began to shake, fear setting in about the situation they were currently in.

"Check. Check your bloody phone, Katrina."

Trembling hands pulled it out of her pocket, and she let out an odd sort of strangled sound as she realised it hadn't gone through like it expected.

"You," John pointed at Sherlock," Think of something." He stood up and backed away from the bomb.

Katrina moved too, going to sit and lean against the carriage door closest to her.

"Why would I know what to do?" Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked up at John.

"You're the one who knows fucking everything!" Katrina burst out. "But _that guy_ ," she turned her head to John, "Was in the _fucking army._ "

"I was a doctor!" he shouted back. "You're the technological genius, how about you think of something?"

"It's computer genius, _actually!_ " she snapped, then laughed without humour. "Oh this is a great joke, isn't it? A detective, a doctor, and a computer whizz all walk onto a tube train to find it's _laced with explosives..._ "

"Shut up!" John went to look down at the bomb again, where a timer was glowing. Two and a half minutes. "Can't – can't we rip that off?"

"That would set it off," Sherlock muttered, resigned.

"You know something," Katrina commented.

They fell quiet, tension hanging in the air between them, tension that was cut by the entire carriage lighting up.

Sherlock and Katrina rose to their feet.

"Why didn't you call the police?" John questioned. "Why do you _never_ call the police?"

"Because, John, he's Sherlock bloody Holmes and he's too good for anyone who's of lesser intelligence to him!" Katrina spat as she stalked towards the detective, with nothing but anger on her face now. He slowly backed away from her. "And the police fall into that category," she added, coming to halt.

"Kat..." Sherlock breathed, worry – so unfamiliar to him – crossing his features.

"No." She shook her head, tears in her eyes. "You're never going to stop being an arsehole, are you?"

He didn't answer her, but pushed past to go back to the bomb and keep an eye on the timer. John watched the pair of them silently. Katrina turned round to look at Sherlock, even though he was now on the floor with his back to her.

"What the hell was that last night, then? I don't get – I don't get how you can go from… kissing my forehead and holding my hand and telling me it's going to be fine, to not… even… valuing any of our safety," she said quietly.

"I'm not having this conversation here," he said, beginning to scrabble around the bomb in an effort to find something – anything – that would result in it switching off.

"No. It's happening now, because you – you hurt me, and you hurt John. And you've not even said sorry. Normally I don't care about your emotionless exterior, because everybody here knows that you _do_ care. But right now, we could all fucking _die_ because of you, and you haven't even given that much thought to the damage you did to me and John by playing dead."

"Then go." He stopped what he was doing.

"What?"

"If you don't want to die, then run – just run, get the police, and you'll be safe."

"There's no _time_ for that!" John finally spoke up.

"Then I don't know what I can do for either of you!" Sherlock raised his voice at them. He only looked at John, though, because he didn't want to turn around and look at Katrina. "But… Katrina… you are right. I haven't given much thought about you or John. I'm not… I…" he took a deep breath. "I am sorry. To the both of you for all the hurt I have caused you–"

"No. You're just saying that to make _me_ say something nice."

"I'm not. John, I am truly, _truly_ sorry for everything bad that has happened to you because of me. And you too, Katrina, I'm sorry I'm… inconsistent. And that you've been wronged by me far too much. If I hadn't have come back… you'd both still have futures. Yours with Mary, John; Katrina, yours just being… well, I suppose brilliant is a good enough word."

"I – I wanted you to not be dead."

Sherlock chuckled. "Be careful what you wish for. At least Katrina would only say she missed me..."

"You're awful," she said. "Maybe I should have just moved out and spared myself the trouble."

He didn't respond to that, but only take a deep breath and duck down.

John held onto the poles, and prepared himself to die.

Katrina sat down on one of the seats in resignation.

Silence.

Then–

Sherlock was chuckling from his spot on the floor. The other two glanced at each other before going over to him. Katrina yanked the detective back away from the bomb and looked down at it, where the numbers were flickering between one minute and twenty eight seconds, and one minute and twenty nine seconds.

She turned to the detective absolutely fuming. He was still laughing, and she pulled him to his feet before hitting him so hard in the face that he toppled backwards to the floor again; so hard that Katrina was certain she heard something snap in her hand. If that was even possible.

"You – fuck – you, sir, are a cu-"

" _Cock!_ " John cut across her, going to pull her away from the man.

The punch to the face had sobered up Sherlock, and he was rubbing his jaw as he stood up.

"Hmm. There was an off switch, because terrorists can get into all sorts of trouble. Really though, I actually don't know how to turn all these silly lights off _without_ that," he explained calmly.

Katrina shrugged out of John's grip and made a beeline for the exit, not caring or stopping for the armed policemen that were on their way towards the carriage. Everyone just let her go.

"Oh! You did call the police," John said, exasperated.

"Of course I called the police! While you two were busy jumping over the barriers, that's what I was doing. I knew Kat would text Mycroft as well, but it wouldn't work out."

"I really am going to kill you."

"Killing me? Oh that's _so_ two years ago."

* * *

Sherlock returned to 221B to find all the lights out. At first, he assumed that Katrina had gone straight to bed, but the orange light coming in from the street told him otherwise. He He flipped the switch on the wall, to see Katrina sitting in his chair. He went and sat in John's one opposite her.

He watched in silence for a few moments as she idly sipped on a glass of whisky, staring him dead in the eye.

"Overstepped it," he muttered.

"Yes." She set the glass down on the coffee table. "You did."

"If I said sorry now you wouldn't believe me."

"No, I wouldn't, because it would just look like you were trying to regain my favour."

He nodded slowly, relaxing back into the armchair. "I meant what I said, down there."

"I know you did. So did I."

"You're one of the few people who always mean what they say. That I didn't fail to notice." The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards briefly, for a moment, before he composed himself again. Katrina was not in the mood for any form of compliment at the current moment, backhanded or otherwise. Then again… she never ever was.

"Are you going to leave now?" She came straight out with it, cocking her head to the side in question. "You came back and dealt with the very literal underground terrorist network, saved a lot of people a lot of hassle, so does that mean you're going to go galavanting off again?"

He shook his head. "I'm here to stay, actually. I… can't keep away from it, really." He could understand why she thought he might leave, but at the same time Sherlock didn't like the fact that Katrina thought that.

"Okay. Good. Right..." Katrina went quiet for a moment. "Sherlock… do you know who tried to kill me? And why?"

"No. I don't. I'd like to find out," he stated, matter of factly. "And… Kat – _Katrina_ , I won't leave if you won't."

"I wasn't going to anyway. I'm too comfortable here." She rose from her seat, and sauntered towards the bedroom. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night," he called back over his shoulder, before setting eyes on the empty glass. "Drinking messes with your medication, you know."

He received no answer.

* * *

 **And that's the end of The Empty Hearse!**

 **Note: yes, I'm aware in the show that Sherlock and John are walking through an empty Westminster tube station, but as a Londoner, I can tell you now that Westminster tube station is NEVER empty at the time of day they were walking through it. I'm assuming they were there on a weekend, sometime between 4 and 6pm, AKA RUSH HOUR. Because in London, rush hour is like 4 hours long and makes you feel dead inside.**

 **Also there's the fact that this episode was set sometime in 2013, before contactless payment was a popular thing. Sherlock and John get cabs everywhere. They carry cash. They don't appear to have oyster cards. They would end up vaulting over the barriers because any Londoner knows that tapping in at one stop and not out at another charges you like £8, and nobody wants that. I'm too much of a Londoner to ignore this. I changed it accordingly, by making the situation more illegal than it already was, ALL IN THE NAME OF ACCURACY.**

 **Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter, let me know what you thought!**

 **-OL.**


	21. That Thing You Did

A routine was settled into at 221B after that, no matter how awkward.

They danced around each other, trying to avoid each other. Sherlock had since taken the bed upstairs until such a time he thought it would be more acceptable for him to pester Katrina into giving back his old room. Not ask, _pester._ Even when she would hopefully forgive him, she wouldn't give it up by his asking.

She could hold a grudge pretty well, he'd discovered.

She would avoid making eye contact whenever they passed each other in the flat, or perhaps even get overly annoyed if he didn't _quite_ rinse out the sink well enough after shaving. In return, he made a point about how her long hair would clog up the shower drain far too easily.

It was lucky that was about as petty an argumentative as they would get, due to the fact that Sherlock had picked up on the fact that Mycroft was making Katrina work late every now and then. She would barely leave the bedroom on weekends due to catching up on sleep. She wouldn't even eat during that time.

It got to a point where Sherlock actually made food for her. It wasn't out of sentiment or worry, it was because she wasn't him and actually needed food to function. Mid-afternoon one Sunday, he knocked on the door with a bacon sandwich, which Katrina took gratefully and with surprise. She looked awful. Most likely not wearing make up. Why would she? She wasn't leaving the flat and had no need to look smart.

Not even John could bridge the gap between them, and neither could Mary. It had taken the latter to convince Sherlock that Katrina just needed a bit more time. As far as Sherlock was aware, ever since the formal announcement of John and Mary's engagement, Katrina and Mary had been in close contact. Perhaps it was because they were fellow females. That made sense. Katrina had been surrounded by males for about three years, she probably needed a change in topic – not that Sherlock knew what women spoke about. Probably not murder, though.

As December drew in, something shifted. Katrina was less irritable with him, and didn't mind being in the same room as him. Sherlock found it odd at first, particularly when she would actively speak to him about something other than not washing the sink out properly after shaving.

Then one night, while fixing himself some coffee, Sherlock heard some rather… _interesting_ noises coming from the bedroom. Curious, he crept closer towards the door.

" _Sherlock..._ " he heard Katrina gasp.

 _Bingo._

He smirked, and went back to making his coffee. That was rather useful information.

A few minutes later, he heard the tap in the bathroom running, and then Katrina came wandering into the kitchen. Her lips were a little fuller than normal, and there was a pink tinge to her cheeks – all of that he got from one quick side glance.

What was _also_ interesting, was how when she reached up to get a glass from the cupboard, she was standing _extremely_ close to him. He could feel her bosom against his arm, and she acted like it wasn't.

Katrina didn't say a word to him as she filled the glass with water and went back to the bedroom.

Over the next few nights, that would keep happening. He'd get a hot drink around the same time she would do _that_. Unless of course, she was working far too late, as was what happened on the Friday night.

"Eleven o'clock again," Sherlock commented as Katrina entered the flat. "I'll _actually_ have to have words with Mycroft – been debating that for a week or so now." He barely even glanced up from his book as he said that.

"You won't like what he has to say," Katrina replied, hanging her coat up and taking off her shoes. Sherlock looked up as she walked into kitchen, most likely looking for food.

"There's some takeaway in the fridge. I thought because it was a Friday you might… what's the phrase? You might want a 'treat,' so to speak."

"I think I'll pass, thanks, I ate at work."

"Oh right." Sherlock snapped his book closed and made his way from the sofa to the desk, opening up his laptop. Lestrade had been kind enough to send him a few unsolved cases, and now seemed like the perfect time to filter through them to see which one he'd like to finish off first. Then it occurred to him what Katrina had said a minute beforehand. "What do you mean I won't like what Mycroft has to say?"

She padded into the living room and curled up in the red armchair drinking a glass of water. "For a start, you never like what he has to say. Secondly… it's because I've amended things with him, and he's not particularly impressed with how long it's taking for me to feel one hundred percent normal around you."

He leaned back in the chair. "Ah. So you _are_ still angry."

"Well, you never actually apologised to me _properly_ for rendering me almost catatonic." Katrina slammed the empty glass down on the small coffee table.

"I thought I did."

"In a roundabout way, when John and I thought we were going to die in an explosion in a disused tube tunnel." She bit her lip. "But you have been on your best behaviour so… I guess in some way–"

"A roundabout way, perhaps?" Sherlock quipped, a slight smirk on his face.

Katrina chuckled. "Yes, in a _roundabout_ way, I am slowly forgiving you."

The smirk only seemed to grow stronger. "I know." That only confused Katrina. "You know, you should moan my name a little quieter in your sleep."

She jumped out of the chair and started backing away from Sherlock, her cheeks now flushed. "You should – you shouldn't even be listening to that!" She pointed at him, and then realised what she had just implied. They were absolutely flaming now.

"Don't you think I've noticed your body language as of late?"

"You – you were making coffee on _purpose?!_ " she screeched.

"In the end… yes, I was. Katrina, surely you must be aware of the size of your breasts?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

She bit her lip – was it possible for her to go even more red than she already was?

Sherlock then made his way over to Katrina quickly, so that she ended up backing into the table in the kitchen.

Despite the fact that about a month ago, Sherlock had been in close proximity to Katrina while she was naked, the context had been totally different. Their faces were merely inches from each other's, and he took hold of her wrist like he had done once upon a time, so long ago.

Katrina's breathed hitched in her throat when he did that, but she didn't break the eye contact she now held with Sherlock. Her face was starting to return to it's normal colour too.

"Are you taking my pulse, Mr Holmes?" she asked him, barely above a whisper.

"Indeed I am, Miss Jenkins..." he murmured back, letting go of her wrist and allowing his fingers to trail down towards her own, when he finally interlaced them.

"Comfy?"

"Hmm. Just confirming what I already knew."

"Oh?"

He leaned towards her ear. "It's obvious you're attracted to me, Miss Jenkins, and perhaps I can be of some assistance to you late at night."

Katrina couldn't even find the words to reply, and Sherlock knew he had got her. She hadn't been expecting him to do any of this, but then again – he _was_ comfortable around her. They were for all intents and purposes, friends. Before he could even consider anything sexual with someone, a foundation such as that had to be firmly in place.

Even though things had been shaky recently, his eyes never lied to him. His reasoning was apt and pure, and even Katrina couldn't argue with that. She rarely lied about her emotions, and that suited him perfectly in this instance. Oddly enough, he'd been planning this for about a week now in order to see how she'd react.

An experiment, so to speak, and a successful one at that.

His mouth was still by her ear, but slowly he brought it to her own and gently – ever so gently – kissed her. It was a careful kiss because he knew she could be a volatile woman, and the softness of her lips surprised him – for she herself was not soft in anyway.

Soon, he had lifted her onto the table and his hands never left her waist as his lips moved delicately against her own. He'd deleted it from his memory what a kiss felt like, so now it were as if he were having his first kiss all over again. What was familiar, however, was the feeling of Katrina brushing her thumbs over his cheekbones, and an intense memory of the time she was in his dressing gown on his lap flashed through his mind. That caused him to be less gentle with his mouth, and grip her waist just that little bit harder.

After a few minutes, they broke apart, both breathing heavily.

"Textbook," Katrina said. Sherlock laughed – it wasn't his usual laugh, it was quite… deep. And throaty. The kind of laugh that, because they were pressed against each other at this point, vibrated through Katrina's body.

She lowered her hands from his face, resting them against the table once more. Katrina tilted her head to the side and stared into Sherlock's blue eyes – well, they looked blue at the moment, heterochromia iridium was an interesting matter – and found he was calculating what to do next. The eyes weren't steely or cold as they usually were when he did that, but there was a curiosity there.

A moment later, his hands were on her thighs, pulling them apart so that he could stand between her legs. That startled Katrina a little, and her instinctive response had been to clasp Sherlock's shoulders. He smirked. Exactly what he had wanted.

He dipped to kiss her again, except this time with more urgency. Steadily, his hands made their way up Katrina's legs and to her hips where the hem of her black jumper settled. He hooked his fingers underneath it and began to hitch it up, to which she complied with quite happily.

Sherlock frowned after Katrina had taken it off and placed it on the table behind her.

"Miss Jenkins, I believe you're wearing my shirt."

Indeed she was. That purple shirt she had grown to love so much – she had finally stolen it and worn it to work. It was a little large on her, yes, but her bust seemed to filled out any area on the chest of the shirt that would have been more loose on a woman with anything smaller than a thirty eight D.

A fake cough from Katrina brought him out of his thoughts. He'd been staring at her chest for quite some time, apparently. He swallowed; quite loudly at that too. Suddenly he felt nervous and took a few steps back from her.

 _Why had he felt the urge to do more than just kiss her?_ He'd only wanted to tease her about the fact she masturbated and thought of him in the process. A faint blush seemed to rise to his cheeks, and Sherlock shut his eyes and counted to ten in order to calm himself down.

This had all seemed easier two years ago, but perhaps that was because Katrina had been leading him. Perhaps it was because he knew that back then, it wouldn't have ended in sex. It would ended with them pleasuring each other in other ways. Wait: why was he assuming that tonight would have ended in sex? Wouldn't they have just gone about that routine?

Or did Sherlock actually _want_ to have sex with Katrina?

He began pacing back and forth in the living room, fully aware of the fact that she was watching him and growing more worried by the second because of how he had just switched states and mannerisms entirely. Sherlock's fingers were steepled under his chin as he walked in thought.

Their last sexual encounter had been well over two years ago, and Sherlock had been certain it would never happen again. He couldn't deny that even after all this time, he had some form of connection to Katrina. He'd been fascinated by her, he'd been _exiled_ because he had wanted to see how she was doing. Sentiment, yes, a different kind of sentiment to the one he held for John.

It were as if an elastic band was between him and Katrina, and the further he went from her, the more the need to ping back. Might as well shift the elastic to something more durable and less likely to break from tension; string was a good option. As was rope. Rope was strong and sturdy. Metaphorical rope, was what he was referring to.

Sherlock wanted to know what it felt like; to feel Katrina's warmth, to feel what she had done on so many countless occasions. He knew that sex had been Katrina's addiction for a short time, much like how cocaine, heroin, and cigarettes had been his. It was a curiosity to him – he wanted to know why such a rabid, physical stimulation could be such an addiction.

He stopped, facing the window. He lowered his hands and turned back to Katrina, who was waiting for him quiet expectantly, still a little worried.

"Katrina, I want to have sex with you," Sherlock announced.

"You want to what?" Katrina slipped off the table, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow.

"Have… sexual intercourse with you..." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Did you not hear me correctly?"

Katrina's lips twitched up in amusement. "I heard you perfectly fine, I just wanted you to say it again. Why?"

He blinked. "Curiosity. An experiment, if you will. And there's the fact I can't deny… there's… _a thing_ between us. I don't know what to call it. But there's _a thing._ Yep."

"Whatever will John and Mary think?" Her eyebrow arched up, and Sherlock appeared to become more himself in that moment – he gave her a devious look.

"We see how long it takes for them to figure it out."

"From that I'm assuming we'll be having sex consistently?"

"Only if you want to." He shrugged, casually putting his hands in his pockets. "It can just be the once, if you'd rather."

"You were the one who said there was _a thing_ between us. Besides, my hands are getting rather tired nowadays. What with working at a computer for a majority of the day, and deciding to pleasure myself… it's not good for carpel tunnel syndrome." She batted her eyelashes at him in a way that was annoying, but also flirtatious and demure. It was funny how many things she could be to Sherlock all at once – that in itself was an entirely different enigma for another night.

Since he didn't say anything in response, Katrina shook her head and laughed to herself, turning on her heel and picking up the jumper from the table before heading to the bedroom. Sherlock stared after her for a moment, and realised she had wanted him to follow her.

Upon entering the bedroom, Sherlock noticed how she'd tossed the jumper in the laundry basket and was sitting on the bed with one leg crossed over the other. She glanced up at him, waiting for him to join her. Once he did, she waited a few more seconds before moving to straddle his lap and pin him back to the bed by his wrists. Sherlock was certain he'd never seen anyone move so quickly, and he wasn't sure how to react.

Their noses were touching, and Sherlock noted that she was quite strong – it was hard for him to even attempt to move out of her grip. It frustrated him, but him trying only caused Katrina to chuckle. He relaxed, and she pressed her lips to his, but only for a second – she moved down along his jaw, down his neck, and stayed in the crook of it, gently nipping and sucking on it right over his pulse.

He thought he'd stopped breathing for a moment when she did that, but Sherlock knew better. Of course he hadn't stopped breathing, he was just simply reacting accordingly to what she was doing. He was enjoying it; he was enjoying letting his body do more of the reacting rather than his mind, although he couldn't help but analyse as they progressed.

She removed one of her hands from his wrist and was making work of his shirt buttons, undoing them slowly – she was being cautious with him, because she knew that he'd had a distinct lack of experience in the area. Upon reaching the last one, she let go of his other wrist so that they could sit up again and she could slip it off of him.

While they were there, Sherlock opted to do the same to her – not exactly the same, of course – but he undid her shirt (well, his shirt), taking the time to feel all the way from her shoulders to her hands as he too slipped it off of her. Sherlock stopped once the shirt was lying somewhere on the floor, and chose to admire the woman that was sitting atop of him.

Katrina was curvy, there was no denying that; she was shapely and as Sherlock stared at her in that moment, all he really wanted to do was touch her and memorise every inch of her skin; every crevice. He wanted to learn what kind of touches pleasured her, he wanted to learn every fact about Katrina and her body so that he could store them and use them wisely.

"Thirty eight D," he murmured.

She rolled her eyes and crashed her lips to his again, and in his shock at the sudden intrusion of her lips on his, Sherlock's hands automatically went to her waist – she was so warm, and soft, and he was _allowed_ to touch her – and he held her there. He let Katrina do most of the work, surprising himself as a quiet moan escaped him as her tongue found it's way into his mouth for a moment. Every now and then, it would dart in and out, so he decided to do the same with her. He felt her smile, and he knew he was doing something right; she was rather liking it, too.

At that point, her hands had been in his hair, gently pulling at it (to which Sherlock couldn't help but elicit a few more moans), but eventually they made their way down his body, her nails leaving faint pink lines along his chest. An arm now wrapped around his shoulders meant that she was pressed entirely up against him save for a hand that was now between his legs; as she began to rub there, Sherlock felt his any rationality give up entirely and all that was left was something a little more primal.

There was something about the way she was performing those ministrations; something that told him that this was going to be a fairly quick affair. That was perfectly acceptable to Sherlock, considering that it was going to be just sex between the two of them. There was no affection between them, it was simply just lust taking over the both of them.

Once finally getting to the act, Sherlock couldn't help but feel suitably impressed by the prowess that Katrina had in herself. He'd never experienced something that intensely, or at least he couldn't remember experiencing something that intensely – there was a very high chance he would have deleted anything as irrational as strange emotional, physical experiences from his youth from his hard drive.

Sherlock had never felt a euphoria or release such as this before. Of course, he had dabbled in masturbation (what teenager or man _hadn't?_ ) but this was completely different. Oh, she was very good, not that he'd actually admit that to her.

Some time later, when they had both come down from their highs at more or less the same time, Sherlock had Katrina half resting on him, so he put an arm around her. There was a quietness humming through his mind, and he was actually finding it quite nice. His mind had never been this quiet before – it was always abuzz, always ticking, and ticking quickly. Sherlock merely took this time to completely shut off, trying to ignore the fact that his heart rate was faster than it should be.

So that was sex. He couldn't remember if he had dabbled in it in his youth – he probably had, simply to just get it over with – but this had been… something. Definitely enjoyable. Definitely something he'd do with Katrina again. At least if she was willing to.

And now his mind was back on again.

He removed himself from under Katrina and sat up, pulling on his trousers.

"You okay?" she asked him quietly. He nodded.

"I'll be back in a minute," Sherlock then said, taking leave and going to the bathroom. His cheeks were flushed; not much, but enough for him to notice. They were a shade of pink he hadn't been aware even existed. He gave his face a quick splash with some cold water from the tap before patting it dry and going back to the bedroom.

In the time it took for him to do that, Katrina had quite happily put the purple shirt back on and actually gotten into bed.

He sat down, leaning with his back against the headboard.

"You look snug," he commented.

"I'm quite sleepy."

"Does that always happen?"

"What?"

"You… getting sleepy after sex?"

"Most of the time. It's probably the only exercise I'm willing do," she chuckled, rolling to face him. "Are you not tired?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You did most of the work. Why would I be tired?"

She scowled at him, and he smirked in return.

"Either way, I um… well, that was good. I liked it. I wouldn't mind doing it again," he carried on talking, and that was enough to satisfy Katrina. He wondered whether or not to tell her about the calm that had fallen through his mind shortly after, but decided against it for now. That was for some other time.

"When and how often?" Katrina asked him. "You're you. I figured you'd rather have a set day for it. I think I would too, actually."

He thought for a moment. "Fridays. It can be an end of the week treat, if you like."

Katrina glanced up at him and he winked at her.

"I suppose you're forgiven," she said, offhandedly, rolling onto her back

"Am I now?"

"Hmm. Yes. I can't really hold a grudge against someone I'm having sex with, can I?"

"I suppose not," Sherlock agreed, electing to finally slide under the covers, although he propped himself up on one elbow, facing Katrina. "We'll have to keep up some sort of pretense."

"For a short time," she pointed out. "I give it until Christmas for John and Mary to figure it out."

"Three weeks?"

"And we're not doing Christmas."

"Of course not."

"Now shut up and spoon me."

"What?"

"People cuddle after sex."

"God, no."

Sherlock pulled a face and turned away from Katrina, moving away from her as much as he could without falling out of bed.

There was no bloody way he would be doing any sort of _cuddling._

Absolutely preposterous.

* * *

 **High T warning probably would have been a good idea, but that would have ruin the ~aesthetic~ I have going for how I format author's notes. But yes, they did the thing. They done the do. I'm a mature human being I swear. But now everyone gets on again! And I'm going to have so much fun with the couple dynamics.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	22. They Suspect

Two weeks later, things got interesting.

Since Sherlock only needed something around five or six hours of sleep in order to function like a human being during the day, it meant he remained awake after sex while Katrina dozed off. As of right now, he was lying there staring up at the ceiling, counting down the minutes until he knew he would fall asleep.

He was also thinking about the fact that they'd had sex seven times in the past two weeks, among doing other things. Sherlock wasn't addicted, no, but he knew for a fact that Katrina was. He couldn't help but notice how tense she could be before it all, and then visibly relax afterwards. He was beginning to understand where Mycroft had been coming from the year before.

He had to be careful, yes, but Katrina was a grown woman. She could handle herself, and she would know when to stop.

Sherlock was jolted out of his thoughts when she rolled over and draped an arm over him, resting her head by his armpit. He stiffened, not entirely sure how to react, but then put his arm around her, sighing quietly.

"Don't act like this is the worst thing in the world..." she murmured.

He rolled his eyes. "Are you really still awake?"

"Not quite…" she yawned. "Woke up enough to steal your warmth."

"Oh, is that what this is?"

"Hmmm..." Katrina was starting to drift off again, and Sherlock knew he was going to be holding her for the rest of the night.

She was a very still sleeper, something of which he hadn't picked up on before. That meant he wasn't annoyed by the fact she was in his space even more so than before. Oddly enough, it was quite comforting. Yes, her body was cold but slowly she began to warm up the longer she was attached to him.

Physical intimacy was a still a strange, strange thing to Sherlock.

Regardless, he managed to drift off into a dreamless sleep; it was two in the morning one minute, and the next it was close to midday.

Katrina had ended up back on her side of the bed, lying on her front. She was completely out of it, but considering the time, Sherlock elected to poke her in the back in an effort to get her to wake up. That didn't work, so he ended up shaking her a little and _that_ had her roused.

She turned to face him with tired eyes, and she scowled at him. Sherlock leaned on his elbow, staring down at her.

"It's almost midday."

Katrina groaned. "Seriously? We're functioning adults who can't even wake up at a reasonable time on a Saturday?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "Says the woman who often refuses to come out her room on weekends because she's so tired she'd rather sleep all day. And I make you lunch when you do that, too."

"That is rather sweet of you."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to groan.

"I only do it because you actually need food to function more normally. It's not because I worry."

Katrina laughed. "You know, I figured that would be the case. God. Did we have anything to do today?"

"I believe John and Mary are coming over," Sherlock replied after a moment.

"When?"

He glanced back at the clock. "Soon. If you wanted, it would give us enough time for…"

"For?"

"Another… round..." Sherlock didn't want to say it. It seemed childish, but he couldn't bring himself to properly instigate it – that was what Katrina did. She did it far better than he ever could, after all. "I could try something that you've implied you like."

Katrina sat up, trying to process what was being said. "Really don't think we'd have time for that."

"Oh. Shame. I was wondering if I'd be any good at it." Sherlock was so matter of fact about it all that it surprised Katrina to no end. She eyed him curiously, wondering what could have possibly warranted for him to offer _that_.

Before their conversation could continue any further, the sound of voices muffled through the floorboards had them frantic.

"...That'll be John and Mary," Sherlock said, hopping out of bed and running into the bathroom through the door in the bedroom.

Katrina hurriedly went and pulled a dressing gown on as she heard the shower start going. "What am I meant to say?!"

"You're clever! Think of something!" Sherlock shouted back over the rushing water.

Mentally preparing herself and taking a deep breath, she made sure the dressing gown was tied tight around her body and made her way through towards the living room, except she stopped short in the kitchen. John and Mary were already in the living room, and were looking towards her both mildly confused.

Katrina promptly went to go and make herself a cup of tea to at least give some noise in the flat, apart from the running water from the bathroom.

"You're up late?" John remarked as he settled down on the red armchair. Katrina shrugged as she accidentally put four teaspoons of sugar into her mug due to the fact she wasn't really paying much attention.

She cursed quietly, took out the teabag, and decided to put some coffee in instead. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she noticed how Mary was leaning against the desk with her arms folded, watching her quite intently.

"Been a busy week," Katrina finally said, now drumming her fingers impatiently on the counter top as the kettle heated up. Nobody said anything.

The kettle finally went off and Katrina hastily poured the hot water into her mug, finally grateful to have something in her hands.

"Or a busy night," Mary piped up.

"I believe that Katrina had a male guest over in her bedroom last night and he's still asleep in there. Perhaps we should keep the noise to a minimum before she tells us all to piss off?" Sherlock's voice suddenly came from the hallway.

Katrina whipped round to see him standing there in just a towel and nearly dropped her beverage in shock.

John and Mary seemed as surprised as she was.

Good lord, the atmosphere in the flat was almost stifling.

The silence was deafening.

"I mean… he's a bit of a heavy sleeper..." Katrina offered, taking a sip of the coffee.

"Really?" A frown crossed Sherlock's face as he turned to look at her. "Would have thought you were the heavy sleeper. You're almost impossible to wake up on weekends..." he muttered, beginning to make his way to the stairwell.

Katrina scowled and threw the teaspoon at the back of his head, her cheeks going pink in the process. It missed, bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor instead. Through the closing door out to the hallway, Katrina just about caught Sherlock turning back to wink at her.

Bloody bastard.

She then remembered John and Mary were there, and they were watching her very, _very_ intently. She turned back to them, now with a slightly false smile on her face.

"I sleep a lot on weekends."

"Right," Mary nodded, "And the guy…?"

"Someone from work. It's a long story – well, actually, he implied he wanted to sleep with me at some point so I figured I would humour him..." Katrina thought she might as well use that one conversation she had with Daniel as a good cover story. Even though it had been some time ago, it was one of the few conversations that was more or less burned onto her brain. "Sorry, um, it's been a busy week-"

"Night."

Katrina gritted her teeth. "Hmm. Busy week. Busy night. Anyway… why are you guys here again?"

"Well, we mainly wanted to talk to you about Sherlock," John said, as the woman came walking into the living room and sitting in the blue chair opposite him. "Obviously, we know he's got you here, but I'm worried because me and Mary are going to be getting married and he'll get… all… _Sherlock…_ because things are going to be a bit different. They can't go back to being what they were."

"Yeah. I get that," Katrina replied, sincerely. "He thought I was going to leave, because I've got my own thing going on too. Kinda made this place my home over the past couple of years, so I told him I'm not leaving any time soon. I think he'll just have to get used to you not being on cases as much."

"Obviously I will be sending him out to make sure Sherlock gets a bit of normality," Mary said, going over to John and resting her hand on his shoulder. "Can't have this one getting bored all day."

Katrina couldn't help but laugh. "True. Anyway, I'm here. He should be alright..." Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Sherlock had cracked open the living room door. "Definitely going to be just fine. And… I believe you said ' _mainly_ wanted to talk to me about Sherlock,' what else is there?"

"Wedding things. Christmas things. The usual."

Katrina made a face at the mention of Christmas. "I don't think we really want to do Christmas. I haven't exactly been festive for the past couple of years, and Sherlock's just a grumpy old Scrooge, isn't that right?" She raised her voice towards the end of her sentence, and Sherlock came strolling in suited and booted.

He shrugged. "I suppose we could do Christmas. Don't buy me anything though..." Sherlock wandered over to Katrina and casually plucked the coffee cup from her hand, taking a rather large gulp of it. "Oh god – how much sugar is in this?!"

"That wasn't for you!" Katrina shouted at him as he quickly made his way into the kitchen.

"Careful now, don't want to wake up your guest, do you?" He set the cup down on the counter and set about making himself some toast.

"I will tell on you to your brother."

"And what will you say, hmm? That _mean old Sherlock_ has to wake you up on weekends and keep you somewhat satiated so that you don't lose touch with reality. Oh yes, what a crime to tell my brother about!" He rolled his eyes, whirling about the kitchen until he pulled a jam jar from the fridge. Their friends watched the interaction with amusement.

"Let me guess, if you told me on me to your brother you'd probably complain I'm keeping you far too occupied with looking after me on days I just can't _quite_ manage it myself and it detracts from your precious work? Oh no, what a shame, you turn out to be the _goldfish_ he calls regular human beings."

Silence, again.

"Children, I think you should calm down..." John told them carefully.

Neither of them listened.

As Sherlock made a beeline for the stairs, Katrina headed back towards the bedroom, where _both_ their phones happened to be.

She scrolled through her contacts until getting to Mycroft, and smugly put the phone to her ear.

" _Oh no. Don't tell me I have to come round there to sort out my little brother, do I?"_ he groaned.

"Mycroft, I may or may not have been fucking your brother for the past few weeks," she told him bluntly.

He sighed. _"Of course you are. It was inevitable, wasn't it? I know you have a brain inside your skull, Katrina, but please don't do anything stupid like falling in love with my brother. You know what happened last time."_

"He's quite good at it you know," she completely ignored what he said. "Besides, it keeps me satiated."

" _Please stop talking,_ " Mycroft sounded in pain. _"I could not care less about my brother's sex life, or your sex life – unless it concerned anybody you work with, or anybody dangerous."_

"That's a very specific fetish, Mycroft. Have a good day, now!" She hung up, and not more than five seconds later did Sherlock's phone start ringing on the bedside table.

Grinning, she picked it up and walked back out towards the living room, where Sherlock stood in the middle glaring at her. He snatched the phone from her and stomped out to the landing. Nobody in the living room spoke as Sherlock's grumbly voice echoed through to them in a low tone, and two minutes later he was back in.

John and Mary were looking more confused than ever.

"I hope you're happy..." Sherlock hissed at Katrina.

"Something along those lines, yes..." she mused, and turned to Mary. "Now: you mentioned Christmas? Let me get ready and we can discuss something tasteful for the flat… and then your wedding."

* * *

About three hours and two arguments later, the four of them managed to agree on something for the Christmas decoration of 221B.

Sherlock had been slightly more inclined to something festive purely for the sake of Mrs Hudson, John suggested a simple tree with some baubles would suffice, Mary wanted to go a little bit more excessive than that, and Katrina protested to everything they said. In the end, the living room was adorned with white fairy lights around the edges of the ceiling, and there was a tiny Christmas tree in the corner with multi-coloured lights wrapped around it.

Despite all her side glances at the little thing, the others noticed that Katrina appeared to be alright with it.

While they all settled down, the chat turned to the wedding.

"Katrina, you don't mid being a bridesmaid, do you?" Mary asked her.

She blanched. "Sorry, what?"

"Bridesmaid. I mean, we can't have you _not_ doing something. It was John's idea!" She grinned over at her husband, sitting at the desk, who promptly avoided Katrina's gaze as she glared at him.

"John's idea, you say?" Katrina eventually said through gritted teeth.

"You three are a bit of a trio. Don't get mad at him because you have to wear a lilac dress..." Mary hopped up from the armchair and went to the kitchen. The kettle sounded a few moments later.

"Sherlock..." Katrina whined.

"You weren't here last week when John asked me to be best man, don't expect me to get you out of this one," he replied, not looking up from his newspaper on the sofa.

There was a witty comeback on the tip of Katrina's tongue, but Sherlock seemed to sense that and finally made eye contact with her. She settled back into her chair immediately, beginning to pout. He rolled his eyes and set down the paper.

"Come now, Katrina, be at least a little kinder about John and Mary's special day."

"You don't even know when it is."

"...April?"

Katrina groaned. "August… it's in… August," she sighed.

"Hmmm, those sounds are rather reminiscent of last night."

For the second time that day, absolute silence fell in the living room.

"I think on that note..." Mary came wandering back out of the kitchen, her tea forgotten about. "John, let's go."

The blogger looked mildly confused, but stood and got his coat anyway. "Right… Right."

The couple were soon gone from the flat.

"Well. That's it. I'm going celibate," Katrina announced, and decided to make use of the boiled water in the kettle. Sherlock snorted.

"You? Celibate? _Hardly._ "

"Oh, whatever – it would save us both some teasing," she told him.

"Make me one too!" he called out to her.

"What's the magic word?"

"Make me tea, Jenkins." Sherlock kicked his feet up and stretched out on the sofa.

"You are absolutely insufferable and I cannot wait for the weekend to be over."

He chuckled. "Doubtful."

A teaspoon came flying into the living room and bounced off the wall, landing on Sherlock.

"For God's sake, stop throwing the tableware at me!"

* * *

 **This was just a lighthearted filler chapter. Expect one more of those while I work on the next mystery... which is an... interesting one, I'm glad to say.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	23. A New Year

"Can I drag you out for a bit?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, it's New Year's Eve, I've got the day off, and I don't want to be idle," Katrina told Sherlock from the desk. He was busy in the kitchen doing some sort of experiment with some fingers and she wasn't particularly interested in being around it for an entire day. She also didn't want Sherlock to spend the day obsessing over the experiment, not when he was aware that John and Mary were coming over in the evening.

"Hack something. Write something, I don't know. I'm busy!" he replied. Katrina rolled her eyes and shut her laptop lid, going to approach the detective.

"Come on. You can't be in here all day – people are coming over this evening and we have to be nice to Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock dropped the finger in a beaker of acid. "I thought we only did that on Christmas Day?"

"No, we need to do it on New Year's too… although you weren't that nice on Christmas."

"Neither were you," Sherlock scoffed. "You were too busy trying to avoid the fact it was Christmas."

"So were you!" Katrina whacked him on the arm. "You're not being cooped up in here all bloody day – come on. Get your coat, Holmes."

She more or less dragged him away from his experiment and to the door, where he pulled on his coat in a huff as Katrina did the same. He followed her to the street begrudgingly, waiting until they were in a cab to question her.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," she replied vaguely.

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Because you'll run off back home the minute I say where – and I don't want you to do that."

Sherlock surveyed the woman for a moment, and it clicked in his head what her intentions were. "You want to tell me something."

Katrina glanced at him briefly. "Very good – well, mostly good. I don't just want to talk at you, I want to know things too."

He frowned. What could she possibly want to know? Was it more about his extended absence? Or was it something to do with _her_?

Either way, they fell silent for the rest of the cab journey, and when they arrived at their destination, Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes in annoyance.

"You, the least Christmassy person to ever exist, brought me _here_ to Winter Wonderland?" He actually couldn't quite believe that he was allowing her to lead him into the crowded tourist attraction, but it still happened and he wasn't happy about it. Even though he hated Christmas a bit less than Katrina, Sherlock never had any curiosity about Winter Wonderland in the first place.

"I did, and with good reason." Katrina held out her hand to him, and he took it slowly. Sherlock could feel her fingers growing cold through his gloved hand, so he squeezed them tightly.

She didn't say anything as she led him around the place twice, and he had no desire to make small talk. He was – for once – going to wait patiently, because whatever it was she wanted to say was clearly important if she wanted to do it away from Baker Street.

One the second round of the fair, she led him over to one of the many stalls. It had mulled wine; the cheapest mulled wine in the place. That's what she had been looking for. She bought two cups and then led him towards a heated seating area. They sat down opposite each other at an empty and slightly rickety table, idly sipping on the heated, sweet beverage.

Sherlock had no care for alcohol, but he could forgive mulled wine; a majority of the alcohol had been boiled away, and it got progressively more sickly the more of it he drank. It was a sickly sweetness he could allow himself on a rare occasion.

"Mycroft talked to you about me, didn't he? In those two years you were gone?" she started off quietly. The questions had Sherlock shocked for a moment, but he nodded and took a sip of the wine. "What do you know? Be truthful, for goodness' sake. I'll figure out if you're lying or not by the end of the afternoon."

He sighed, and realised that this had been coming for a while. "I know about Berlin and I know about the dark web, if that's what you're wondering."

She flinched when he mentioned the dark web; a sore spot, for sure.

"Okay," Katrina said after a minute. "So you know the main bits. Were you… were you investigating Magnussen?"

"Mycroft asked me to investigate Alexandra Myers and it led to Magnussen, but everything stopped there. He's not to be touched, Katrina, but he's not going to touch you," he told her sincerely. "Neither Mycroft or I would let him get that close."

She flinched again, and took a hearty gulp of mulled wine.

The table began jiggling just as Katrina's body did – her foot had begun to tap out of nervousness and she hadn't quite realised.

"Unfortunately he _did_ get that close..." she muttered. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he understood what she meant. "He didn't hurt me physically or anything, just… I don't want to go into too much detail about that."

"You were the one who wanted to talk," he raised an eyebrow, "But if that's a delicate matter… fine. You'll tell me eventually. Or I'll find out. Probably the latter… Anyway. You brought me to this hell hole for a reason, did you not?"

"I did," Katrina said a little more brightly. She stopped tapping her foot. "I wanted to do something relatively nice for New Year's besides drinks with the usual lot. I won't lie, I just wanted you to myself for a bit before this evening..."

"Careful now. Don't get _too_ sentimental."

"No – I don't mean it like that – I just – I find it easy to talk to you," she admitted. "Okay, that is a bit sentimental, but you know… I can't help myself. I've only ever been to this place once before. I broke up with someone here a few years ago. Back before I met you. Probably about 2009? Yeah, sounds about right. Anyway, it's always been a sour spot for me, coming here. All I can think about is wandering around with someone who I wasn't even in love with, or even attracted to."

"This is relevant to me _how_?" Sherlock necked the rest of his wine.

"I don't want this place to be sour anymore – I'm tired of everything being so sour. I spent two years going in and out of my head; I couldn't focus on anything except for the job I have courtesy of Mycroft. I'm not you, Sherlock, I can't be solely into one thing like that. I'm not wired like you."

"Are you suggesting that _we're_ sour?"

Katrina nodded, also downing the rest of her wine. "I know I said I forgave you but there's still things there that nag me to hell and back. You were one of my first friends that I had in a long time and now that I know you were off doing dangerous stuff, I can't help but have a retrospective worry."

He chuckled. "Oh, that's so _you_."

"Don't you fucking judge me!" She tried saying it in a pissed off way, but ended up laughing. "Emotional me, and logical you. Yep, we're still a pair."

"I think no matter what happens between us, we're always going to be that pair, Kat. It's funny how we can balance each other out."

"Are you going to give me a long winded Theory of Knowledge lesson again?"

"Theory of Knowledge? That's _so_ two years ago." Sherlock winked, and Katrina started giggling again. "But you're right. Things need to stop being so sour – if bringing me here is what it took for you, then I suppose I'm glad to have been of assistance."

"Thank you," she said.

"I would say 'you're welcome' but we both know that my previous statement was because I know exactly what you want to hear. Although there is a small amount of truth behind it," he told her matter of factly. If anything, that just made Katrina grin – it was Sherlock through and through; that was all she could ask for, really.

He looked down at his hands resting on the table. "Stop doing that now. People might think we're a _couple_."

"Oh yeah, because me smiling is going to make people think that..." She stood up and tugged on his coat sleeve. "Come on. I fancy something fried."

He got up and walked behind her. "Everything here is ridiculously overpriced."

"I know, but on the two walk rounds I managed to figure out the cheapest places."

"Fine."

After ten minutes, Katrina managed to led him back to a stall that was apparently selling fried chicken for about four pounds. If that was the cheapest, then so be it.

She led him around the stalls again but more slowly. She took her time in looking at everything, and Sherlock knew she was trying to turn something that left bitterness in her heart into something good. Katrina had had far too much bitterness in her life for the past two years; Sherlock could appreciate the fact she wanted to let go of it.

Leading him around a tourist trap was her own way of letting it go and replacing it with something sweet. She was trying to replace her lowered opinion of _him_ with a better one too. No matter how much sex they had, no matter if she said she had forgiven him, there was still going to be a small amount of hurt left in her heart and head that she needed to be rid of.

Eventually it was dark, and all that was lighting their way were the colourful lights of the rides and the stall lamps. It was then that Sherlock took charge and finally led Katrina out of the crowded place (which had only appeared to get more crowded as the evening went on). She accepted it.

They took a silent cab journey back to Baker Street where they found John, Mary, and Mrs Hudson awaiting them with wine, beer, and cider in the flat of 221B.

"Where have you been?" John asked, pouring a glass for Katrina.

"Somebody wanted to drag me out," Sherlock gave Katrina a pointed glance.

"Where to?"

"Winter Wonderland."

Mary choked on her cider.

"It was an exercise in replacement, I should think," Sherlock then said, causing Katrina to give him a tiny smile. "It worked."

Everybody in the room appeared confused, but didn't question it.

The evening faded into night with polite conversation – Sherlock and Katrina were both actually nice to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock even got out the violin. The chat turned to John and Mary's wedding, as ever. Katrina was still not fond of the idea of wearing a dress. They all laughed about that. Even Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

All evening, Katrina kept at a distance from Sherlock – even though John and Mary were aware of their current predicament, Mrs Hudson was not. She was currently craving some form of attention from Sherlock, but she didn't want to let it show. Every now and then, however, she would catch Sherlock's eye while he observed the chatting room.

About half an hour before midnight, Mrs Hudson decided to retire to bed, having drank a little too much. They all offered to help her downstairs but she insisted it was fine, and off she went.

The minute the landlady was gone, Katrina immediately went over to Sherlock and plonked herself in his lap, a little giggly.

"You know, it's been a while since I've had a New Year's kiss."

"I have no intention of giving you one," Sherlock said as he took her drink out of her hand and putting it on the desk out of her reach. The woman placed her arm around him so as to keep herself steady.

"That's a bit mean."

"You are mildly inebriated," he pointed out. "Besides, the idea of a midnight kiss is ridiculous – there's nothing significant about it. It's just a kiss as we go into a new year; it happens every year, people whine and talk about it every year. I don't see the point."

"Still mean – he's mean, isn't he Mary?"

"Oh, definitely," the other woman agreed, getting a bit closer to John, who cuddled her accordingly. "Very, very mean."

Everyone except Sherlock was a bit tipsy at this point.

Despite that fact, he carefully snaked his arm around Katrina's waist.

John switched on the TV with the remote, and they all watched the BBC countdown to the fireworks going off.

At midnight, Katrina's phone went off, and she fished out of her pocket.

 _Happy New Year._

 _-MH._

She grinned and showed it to Sherlock. "Your brother sent me a message."

"He didn't send me one..."

Then his phone buzzed, and he got it out to see the exact same text as Katrina received from Mycroft.

"See? He _does_ care," Katrina told him.

"Hmm," Sherlock shrugged. His attention then turned to John and Mary on the sofa. "If you're going to do _that_ at least do it at your own house!"

They had been snogging, but broke apart pretty quickly.

Katrina also jumped off of Sherlock's lap. "Happy New Year, guys. Should be a good one, yeah?" She suddenly didn't seem as perky as when Mycroft had text her, and she made her way through to the bedroom.

Sherlock frowned, watching her go. "I think perhaps that's your cue to leave," he said to his friends, getting up and going after Katrina.

He entered the bedroom to find her in a state of undress, not that it bothered him too much. What bothered him was her sudden change in state of mind – then again, she was almost drunk.

"I think I want to sleep alone tonight," she told him, pulling on a tank top.

"Why?"

"I'm out of it. You're not. I don't want to be… irresponsible."

"That sounds fair enough. Are… are you okay?"

"I'm fine. My mood when alcohol is involved is... questionable. That's all," she said, getting into bed.

Sherlock nodded, and was about to leave the room when he did something out of the ordinary.

He approached Katrina and bent down, kissing her on the lips.

"Happy New Year, Miss Jenkins."

* * *

 **Short and slightly fluffy. Just the way I like it.**

 **The next chapter is the start of a mystery arc that I'm personally in love with. It's to do with uni students, so there's a lot of hilarity involved.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	24. The Ghost of Shooter's Hill

Normally, one would think a Friday night would be the one for a university student to go out on, but it was actually Thursdays. The drinks were far cheaper in certain clubs between Mondays and Thursdays.

It meant that a group of three flatmates and their friend were quite drunk on a night bus back home at around four or five o'clock in the morning. Three girls wearing glasses and a boy with bright blonde hair.

"How much further?" whined the girl with the short brown hair.

"Like… I dunno, five stops?" replied the girl with the red lipstick. She leaned to rest her head on the boy. "Sleepy."

He scratched her on top of her head. "I know, we're almost there..."

A few minutes later, the automated voice on the bus announced one of the roads they were at, causing the red-lipped girl to erupt into giggles.

"I like calling this one Faker Street."

"Lottie, why?" asked the boy.

"'Cause it's like… it's Baker Road, right? Like Baker Street. But not. So Faker Street," said Lottie.

"Your logic is amazing," said the final member of their group, the girl with mousey hair and glasses.

"You know too much about London for your own good..." said the boy.

"Shut up Kyle, you know I'm too good with tube maps."

The voice called out for their stop, so Kyle pressed the bell and they stumbled their way down the steps of the double decker bus once it had stopped, and out the door onto the street. Lottie linked arms with Kyle, while her other two flatmates walked along in front of them.

They crossed the empty road and towards a large complex with a security gate. One of the girls punched in the code and they all walked through. Since there were no street lamps to light their way, it took the group of four a little longer than necessary to actually get to the building their flat was in.

If there was one thing that was concerning, was that the lights were out in their corridor. That was never a thing, unless it was the day time. Only day time were the lights out.

"Becca..." Lottie hissed. "Keys ready?"

The one with the short brown hair nodded.

The entire group sped up towards the flat, suitably creeped out.

Except when they got there, things took a stranger turn.

When Becca inserted the first key into the bottom lock and turned it to the right she was surprised to find it didn't budge. She glanced back at her friends, worried.

"You did lock it, right?" said Becky. Becca nodded in response, and opted to put the second key into the top lock.

She tentatively pushed open the door, but none of the students stepped over the threshold when they saw the hallway.

Instead, they ran.

* * *

Katrina's phone alarm went off at seven precisely. It made a rather annoying quacking noise, and it made Sherlock groan next to her. She sat up and tossed her pillow at him, before getting out of bed and getting ready for work.

While she was making breakfast, all dressed and ready to go, Sherlock decided to surface and went for a shower. She rolled her eyes – for someone who didn't sleep much, he most definitely had a terrible habit of not wanting to leave the bed.

She had some time before leaving, so sat at the desk with her toast, going through social media and emails. Then she heard something strange from outside.

Standing up to look out the window, she saw a group of teenagers – possibly a bit older – arguing on the pavement outside the flat. Katrina frowned, wondering what they could possibly be going on about, and opened the window a bit.

"Come on, we're here now!" The girl had a bright red satchel and lipstick to match. "Might as well see if he'll do anything."

"Are you still drunk?" said the one with short hair.

"You didn't disagree..."

"Yeah, but what if he thinks we're wasting his time?"

Katrina smirked and shut the window. "Sherlock! I think you've got some clients..."

He strolled into the living room, towel drying his hair. "Really? At this hour?" He joined her at the window. "Oh. I see. Uni students after a night out. No wonder they're here at this time of morning."

Sherlock took the chair that Katrina had been sitting in and placed it in the middle of the living room, facing the armchairs. He grabbed another one and put it next to it. A few moments later, the doorbell rang, and soon enough the girl with the lipstick and the blonde boy were awkwardly making their way into the living room.

Katrina went to sit in the red chair with her toast, not wanting to intimidate them by still standing at the window.

"Well, sit down," Sherlock said, gesturing at the two chairs. They glanced at each other and did just that. "Now, shut up. I don't want to hear it yet."

He surveyed them both.

 _Film students._

 _Boy – works almost full time alongside his course, cinematographer and photographer. Always takes the girl on nights out. Not dating her or anyone. Massive soft spot for her, going by the way he has his hand on her knee._

 _Girl – writer, part time worker, perfectionist, anxiety, keeps looking to the boy as if to get him to speak for her, debating whether or not to take his hand. Not dating anyone either, but keeps hitching her scarf up even though nobody can see anything on her neck._

"Explain, but don't be boring," Sherlock finally said.

The girl groaned, and finally took the boy's hand. "I am _literally_ too tired right now to consider making up something exciting, but… Okay," she yawned, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, "So it's about five in the morning. We get back to my flat in Charlton and there's two locks on our door. We – we being myself and my two flatmates who are having a hangover breakfast in the cafe downstairs – locked both. We _always_ lock both the locks one our way out.

"We get back at five in the morning and notice the bottom lock is no longer locked. We open up the door and down the end of the hallway is a ghost. Then we ran here. Bloody night buses..." she sighed. "That's about as interesting as I can make it – I say it was a ghost because one of my flatmates believes in ghosts and our complex is supposedly haunted because it was an old war hospital. I don't believe in any of that crap, so I think someone's trying to play a trick on us – weird shit has been happening for _weeks_ at our flat..."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and observed the girl again. She was tired; beyond tired, in fact. Her face held the manner of someone who was incredibly pissed off with what was going on. He steepled his fingers under his chin.

"What were the other occurrences?" he then asked.

"Uh… I'd been out in central London all day, got back to an empty flat – the girls were in Woolwich – and for some reason every single cupboard in the kitchen was open." The girl was now confused as she recalled that memory. "Honestly, who the fuck does that? Anyway I was a bit freaked out at the idea of someone breaking into our flat that I went down the road and camped at Kyle's." She nudged the boy with her knee at that point. "Then there was also the shower incident. But that's a _really_ long story I don't want to go into..."

"And why come to me instead of the police?"

"Because they would keep insisting that it was one of my flatmates trying to play a trick. I know it's neither of them, I know it's a trick, and I know you would solve it," she paused a moment, "I spend a lot of time on the internet Mr Holmes. I follow Dr Watson's blog, and my parents would agree to help pay the fees for your services."

"Oh, I'm aware that you spend a lot of time on the internet." He smiled at her. "What's your name?"

"Lottie Walker."

"Kat..." Sherlock turned his attention back to Katrina. "You know what to do."

The woman's gaze flickered back and forth between him and the students as she finished off her toast. "Do I?"

"Get your laptop and do what you do best..."

"Oh… Oh! Right."

Katrina went back to the desk and picked up her laptop, settling back in the chair again with it open. The room was silent save for her incessant typing, and within a few minutes she had everything she needed to know.

"Your drunk tweets are _hilarious_ , by the way," Kat told Lottie, who face palmed with her free hand. "Don't be too embarrassed, I've done worse… anyway. You do have an interesting presence on the internet, so it's no surprise you'd want Sherlock to solve your case. I can tell you now he will."

"Will I?" he frowned.

"Yes. You've not had anything good for a week, and maybe you can show off about their little ghost problem. And you're going to give them a discount when it comes to paying."

"Why?"

"They're students. They're poor." Kat snapped the lid of the laptop shut, setting it on the coffee table and standing up. "Now, I have to go to my actual job. Text John about coming with you today, and I'll be around over the weekend, as ever."

"Wait, so you're actually gonna do it?" Lottie was surprised.

"Kat made more of a case for you than you did," Sherlock said, standing up and going over to them. The girl let go of her friend's hand as they stood up too. Katrina made her way over to the door to get her coat and bag. "I don't care if you're tired and pissed off, but a writer should always make their stories _good._ "

Lottie scowled up at him, ready to retort, but Kyle stepped between her and Sherlock.

"Don't," he said to the man. Kyle glanced at the table and then back to the detective, a smug look on his face. "How long have you two been fucking then?"

Katrina dropped her bag on the floor, only serving to increase Kyle's smugness. Sherlock looked at the table and inwardly groaned at the fact there was a box of condoms on it, pissed off that neither he or Katrina put them away. He met Kyle's eye again.

"You don't talk to Lottie like that," the boy then said, as Katrina elected to slowly pick up her bag and quietly leave the room.

"I'm certain Miss Walker can speak for herself," Sherlock took his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, opened it, and handed a business card to the girl. "Text me the address, I'll be there later on this afternoon. Get some rest and tell me and interesting story once I'm there. I'd say about four o'clock?"

"That's fine," Lottie nodded, staring at the card, before popping it into her red satchel. She certainly knew how to grab attention in room – it was red, red, red, with her – not that she did it intentionally. She clearly just liked the colour. "Thank you, Mr Holmes."

"Let's get you some proper food..." Kyle then said to her, leading her out of the flat. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the interaction – slightly overprotective friend. There was probably more to it that he didn't care about.

He sat down with his own laptop at the desk, and his phone dinged a minute or so later. Lottie had already sent him the address, so he gave it a quick look up on Google. She was located near one of the large main roads in London, one that he knew people to colloquially call "Murder Road" instead of its actual name.

A minute later, another message came through with a rather odd set of instructions on how to actually get to her flat once he was on the road. In fact, two different sets of instructions, each set depending on the entrance he elected to use.

Sherlock bided his time by texting John the address, and promptly going to put the packet of condoms back in the bedroom. So much for Katrina wanting to have sex on the couch the other night…

He went and got Katrina's laptop too, and typed a password to find it was correct. Lottie's twitter page was still open, and by scrolling through tweets, clicking links to other twitter users, Sherlock was able to find out what university the teens went to. It was a tiny thing, but he was certain the entire university would know within a few days about his interesting affair with Katrina.

And he was certain that the university would keep that secret to itself.

Sherlock put the laptop on the desk and made his way to the window, where he saw the four students emerge from the cafe back onto the street with takeaway bags.

"How're we getting back?" asked a mousey haired girl.

"Jubilee line – it goes straight home and it's this way..." Lottie beckoned them to follow her, and Sherlock watched as they took a right down the street.

"Your ability to recall tube lines will never cease to amaze me..." said Kyle.

* * *

Upon reaching the students' flat just before four o'clock, Sherlock stopped outside the front door and inspected it accordingly. There was no sign of forced entry – something of which the girl had failed to mention – so that narrowed down his mental list of suspects considerably.

"I will say now, one of the flatmates believes in ghosts," Sherlock then informed John, who was standing a little bit behind him.

"Any reason why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The building is haunted, supposedly." He knocked on the door, and a few moments later a boy with silver hair answered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "You're not the overprotective blonde one?"

"No, I'm the dead inside but also slightly overprotective silver one – Will, for short," he opened the door wider, "Straight down, second door on the right."

Sherlock and John entered the flat, walking towards the room the boy had alluded to. Lottie and Kyle were sitting up in a double bed with part of the duvet in disarray – clearly silver haired boy had been there – and with a laptop between them. Plates were stacked on the white desk near the door.

"Got anymore boys popping out of the woodwork?" Sherlock asked Lottie.

"Give it half an hour, Kyle's flatmate my pop by," she crawled out of bed, no red lipstick to show and definitely cleaned up from her night out. "Thanks for coming, Mr Holmes, we really–"

At that moment, she had caught sight of John, faltering with her words. Behind the adults, Will was shaking his head at her, and Kyle was sniggering in the bed.

"Yes, that's Dr Watson, and please stop doing that," Sherlock said, and Lottie cleared her throat.

"I guess you'll want to look around?" Lottie brought it back, and Will gave her a thumbs up.

"Where did you see your… _ghost_?" Sherlock said the word with such distaste that the students almost laughed.

"About where Will is standing."

The two men turned to look out the doorway, where Will was standing between Lottie's bedroom and presumably another one of the flatmates' bedrooms.

" _Hallo_ ," Will said in a deep Northern accent, waving awkwardly at the detective.

"Let's go make a few cups of tea," Lottie then said quickly, squeezing past Sherlock and John, grabbing Will by the sleeve and dragging him off towards the kitchen.

The men turned to Kyle rather expectantly. Slowly, he moved the laptop next to him and got out of bed, reluctantly following his friends to the kitchen too.

Once all the students were out of the way, Sherlock felt like he could breathe again. The room had felt far too crowded, especially taking into account how messy it was too – well, messy in one corner by the desk anyway. The further was a mixture of old and new, and it was rather odd.

As Sherlock went to step towards the window, something crunched under his foot. He frowned and crouched down to find he had stepped on a tiny piece of glass. He patted his pockets and pulled out his forensics kit, scooping the now broken glass into a small vial, purely for safekeeping and so the barefoot students didn't step on it and hurt themselves. There were small, odd, white patches here and there on the floor too.

He then carefully made his way towards the window, trying to spot for anymore offending glass – which he did. Sherlock put those into the vial too.

At the windowsill, he squatted down again and checked for any movement in the dust line, and found that the figurines there had all been put back in a slightly different position to how they originally were. He pulled up the blinds, and then the window. He looked out and down – they were on the first floor, and it didn't look like a hard climb.

"Ideas?" John spoke for the first time in a while.

"At least two. It's not a hard one, actually, I just need to find out more from the girls about who they could have possibly–"

The sound of crying from the kitchen stopped Sherlock in his tracks, and he was about to go towards it when John held up his finger and rushed out instead. Of course, if it was anything to do with a crying, anxious girl, Sherlock should give it a wide berth.

One of the flatmates – the mousey haired one – poked her head out from her bedroom. Sherlock made eye contact with her, the pair of them finding that awkward enough.

"Uhh… they okay in there?" she asked, gesturing towards the kitchen. She wasn't from London, or the south in general. She sounded like she was from the Midlands. Sherlock shrugged in response. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"I know how you got your ghost. The question is: who? Is there anything that's happened over the past few months that might cause someone to want to mess with you three?"

She stood in thought for a moment, coming to lean in Lottie's bedroom doorway. "Well, there was the shower incident, and also the rent issue because we kept getting fucked about by the estate agent."

"Rent issue?"

"We asked for it to get lowered. They did it without problem."

He nodded. "Anything else?"

"The parking space problem – that got resolved too. It was just a misunderstanding, everyone who lives here is quite nice."

At that moment, John came out of the kitchen and shut the door, the noises having quietened down a bit.

"We're leaving," he said. "Come on. You can investigate underneath the window if you have to, but we need to get out of the flat."

Sherlock shared a confused look with the girl. "Well, I'll be in touch again tomorrow, uh…?"

"Becky," she said.

"Right."

With that, Sherlock followed John out of the flat.

They walked in silence for some time until they were out of the building and in the car park. Sherlock wanted to find the correct window so he could check for any more offending glass.

"What was that all about?" he then asked John. "I wasn't finished."

"They were making tea, and Miss Walker had an anxiety attack – from what, they didn't say, but it's obvious she's got good friends."

"Explains why they're so protective of her," Sherlock muttered as they walked around the grand building eventually coming to find the bedroom window. John stood and watched as his friend dug around in the grass, his arms folded.

"Why did you take this case? It seems too simple," he then said.

"Kat made me do it."

"Really?"

"Well… she said I would take it. I'm still not sure why I did," Sherlock then admitted, now desperately trying to ignore John.

"Then what did Miss Walker say?"

"Hmm?"

"What did she say to make you take it?"

Sherlock sighed and got to his feet, more pieces of glass in his hand. "She said she had a feeling the police wouldn't listen to them. Normally I would denounce knowing things based on 'feeling' but because the police didn't listen to me about Carl Powers when I was young… how could I not take it John?"

John smirked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You saw a memory of yourself inside a twenty year old girl?"

" _Nineteen_ year old girl. If you mention any of this to Kat, I'll be sure Mary knows about your track record with women, so please _do_ shut–" Sherlock cast his eyes on something in the grass. "...Up..."

* * *

"Kat, do you mind doing me a favour?" Sherlock called out from the kitchen as she walked back into the flat from work that evening. It was about nine. She was staying in late, but not drastically so. What the hell was Mycroft's problem?

She moaned as she flopped down on the sofa. "I thought we were done with favours..."

"No, we were done with the _game_ of favours. This for the case."

"What do you need?" she asked.

"I need to find out which estate agent their flat was let under."

"Why don't you just ask one of them?" The confusion was clear in her voice, and a moment later Sherlock walked back into the living room with a cup of tea for her. He set it down on the floor next to the sofa, and sat down cross legged in front of her.

"A delicate situation occurred, I only have Miss Walker's mobile number, and that would mean I would have to get you to find one of the other girls' numbers anyway. I thought I might skip a step somewhere."

Katrina stared at him hard for some time before reaching down for the tea and sitting up properly so that she could drink it. "Fine. I'll do it. But only because the tea is good. Hand me the laptop."

* * *

Several phone calls, a few deductions, and a day later, they were all back at the flat.

Well, all, except for the two boys. It was just girls who lived there plus Sherlock, John and Katrina.

They had convened in the kitchen of the flat, waiting for something – or someone, as Sherlock had put it – idly sipping on tea that Lottie had made them.

"I guess it's lucky I had enough mugs..." she murmured. "Normally I forget that I've used one and then use another, and then I've just got this… really shameful pile of mugs in my room."

"It's okay, you should see our kitchen," Katrina replied, shooting a glare at Sherlock. A knock on the front door stopped any further arguments occurring.

The detective went to answer it, and in stepped a black woman with a white man. He didn't say hello to them, but gestured for them to go into the kitchen.

"Debbie?" Becca was surprised to see her.

"Why are we here?" the woman only responded.

"You'll find out soon, don't worry," John muttered.

It was becoming a little bit cramped in the kitchen, so everyone all stood in a circle leaning against the worktops, leaving a sizable gap in the middle should anybody needed to move.

"For those who aren't in the know – John – this," he pointed at the woman, Debbie, "is the estate agent, and this," he pointed at the man, "is Jacob. He's the landlord of this wonderful flat."

The three students glanced at Jacob curiously, something of which Sherlock was surprised by.

"You've not met him, have you?" he concluded from their expressions.

"Nope," Becky said. "Never seen him before."

"Perhaps that's a good thing because he's the one who broke into your flat."

"I did no such thing!" Jacob protested. "Why would I want to break into a flat I own? Why would I scare a bunch of students? I get no joy out of that!"

"But that's exactly _why_ you did it," Sherlock began, "You see, it was very simple as to how the ghost in the hallway was made in the first place: Pepper's Ghost. You set up a sheet of glass, refract light of a figure in the correct way, blah blah blah, this is a flat of ex-grammar school students who turned to study film so I'm pretty certain they don't need a full explanation of Pepper's Ghost. That's the ghost they saw when they arrived home drunk yesterday morning.

"Except of course, you didn't do a very good job of removing the glass. You broke it. I found little pieces of it scattered in Lottie's room, and the rest of it was on the grass underneath the window – you tossed it out after breaking it.

"You also dressed yourself to look like a ghost – there were blotches of white on the floor that can easily be assumed as body paint; in fact, there's still some of it under his finger nails. The girls were far too drunk to make out a face properly, and they only saw you for a fleeting second. You were hoping to frighten them out of the flat for good.

"As to why? Well, the shower incident, the lowered rent, and the fact they're university students. I phoned Debbie yesterday – thank you, Kat, for finding the estate agents – and learned about the shower incident which the girls did not want to speak about. It was leaking into downstairs, caused a lot of problems, it got fixed, but it took far too long so they kindly requested their rent to be lowered for the next two months – which was how long it took to get sorted. Debbie said it was fine to do that, but apparently did not run it by Jacob. It annoyed him. He wanted to progressively scare them off.

"How could university students be so… slippery? And get what they want? Surely he should have been taken advantage of them from the start? Actually, yes, he was doing that, the rent is extortionate here and really, they should keep paying the lowered price..." Sherlock stopped for moment and turned to Jacob. "Do you have anything to say for yourself until the police get here?"

Stunned into silence, they all looked at Jacob. He gulped, and made no move to defend himself.

Instead, he tried to run back out the front door, only to be met by Lestrade.

"Breaking and entering, and extortion – I think that'll do him for a while," Sherlock smirked.

"Wait – that's all well and good, but who's gonna be our landlord if he's gonna go to prison?" Lottie asked.

"I know just the woman."

* * *

A couple of days later during a Monday lunchtime, there was a ring at the doorbell, and soon enough Lottie was walking into the living room of 221B with a man behind her – her father. She was complete with red lipstick again.

"Ah. Miss Walker. I assume you're here with the money?" Sherlock said, rising from his chair.

She nodded, and then looked at her father rather expectantly. He took his wallet from his back pocket and took out a rather large wad of cash and handed it to Sherlock.

"Sorry, it… would have been a bank transfer, but obviously some of it's mine and the flat's money, and Kyle and Will pitched in a bit too. Then there's my parents' money too. It was just easier to do it manually."

"I'm sure it will go towards something other than rent." Sherlock winked at her, and she wasn't sure why. "How's Mrs Hudson as a landlady?"

"Oh! Well, the shower situation sprang back up… but I believe she gave the insurance company a massive telling off this morning, so… we like her. We like her a lot," she grinned. "And thank you, Mr Holmes, for listening to us – to me. Nobody likes ghost stories or landlords, but you stepped up. So thanks."

"Adults should always listen to children." Sherlock eyed her father for a moment and resisted an urge to sneer at him after making a few deductions. He turned back to the girl. "And the police are idiots. If you ever need help with anything again, it'll be free of charge. You could turn this into one of you little films."

She smiled wryly. "Maybe. Depends on what the brief is. Anyway, I have a friend to go annoy soon. Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

"Goodbye, Miss Walker..." he replied, turning away from them as they left the flat.

Sherlock wandered over to the window, watching as they exit onto the street. A simple case was definitely what he had needed to get him through the weekend, and it had been a rather stupid one too. Easy to solve. He wondered if he should make himself more appealable to university students – this weekend had proved they were interesting specimens.

Of course, he would know that: he had been a university student once upon a time, after all.

* * *

 **This was just a short silly idea I came up with last month that I wanted to include in this fic. Idk why. It's nice and lighthearted! I hope you liked it for what it was.**

 **Also... The Final Problem was incredible. My heart hurts. I can't believe we may not be getting new Sherlock. Sad times. At least we'll always have fanfic, eh?**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	25. Sherlock's Perspective

It had been a fairly mundane day at work. There was nothing massively exciting to do, there were no terrorists attempting to make their lives hell today. Katrina was idle, occasionally checking over security but other than that… there was nothing of interest today.

It was clearly a slow week for the government.

Around about five o'clock, however, there was a knock on her door. Before she could even give the person permission to enter, they had strolled in anyway. It was Mycroft, of course. He looked more grave than usual, and it startled Katrina ever so slightly.

"My brother has requested your presence at Baker Street," he then said, and she frowned.

"Why couldn't he ask me himself? Why not text me?"

"Because he knows you would ignore it and continue on with your day as normal," Mycroft sighed. "And he knows you'll listen to me if I send you home."

"Send me–?" Katrina stood up and made her way round the front of her desk. "What's this about?"

"He wants to speak with you about what went through his mind when he saved you from drowning. Why he would do that now, I have no idea." Mycroft rolled his eyes, clearly not in the mood for his brother to get sentimental, but when he saw the way Katrina flinched he recomposed himself to be more sympathetic towards her.

She didn't say anything for a few moments, trying to process that information. "Sorry, are you saying he wants to tell me what happened? Like… how he got to me? And how he felt about me dying…?"

"Something like that. He sent a barrage of texts to me, so if I were you, go. You work enough overtime, so I don't mind." Mycroft waved off Katrina, and waited as she hastily gathered her belongings and exit her office. He sighed as soon as she was out of earshot, and pulled out his phone.

 _If this is you getting attached, I do not wish to be a part of it.  
_ _-MH._

* * *

Katrina was out of breath by the time she reached 221B, as she had run from the tube station. She saw Sherlock sitting in his blue chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, staring at her. She dropped her bags and made her way to the red chair, settling down into it silently, waiting for him to say something.

All he did was stare at Katrina for some time, so she nearly jumped out of her skin when he did finally speak.

"You're concerned because Mycroft mentioned that I'm going to talk to you about how I felt when you were dying."

She wasn't even shocked about that deduction. "Why wouldn't I be? The most sentiment you give me is sexual." Katrina shrugged. "Why change that?"

"I'm not changing that, but I believe you have a right to know how I got there because I lied about who received the text about you that night," he explained. "Mary was receiving texts about John, and I said she received texts about you. I was the one who received texts about you – in fact, it was just the one text. It contained a riddle and a timeframe..."

* * *

 _ **Three months ago…**_

After pulling John out of the fire, relief flooded both Sherlock and Mary. He was safe – singed, but safe nonetheless. He was barely conscious, and before Sherlock even had time to make sure he became _more_ conscious, his own phone buzzed in his pocket.

He stood up straight, walking away from the couple and pulling it out. There was a message from an unknown number, and he read it with a scrutinising gaze.

 _To cross the water I'm the way, for water I'm above._

 _I touch it not, and, truth to say, I neither swim nor move._

 _10 MINUTES_

Riddles. Oh, how he despised them.

And yet…

There something not right about this one. He knew the answer straight away, it was referring to a bridge. Sherlock looked back and forth between John and his phone, then his phone and Mary, then repeating the cycle all over again. Somewhere between the time he had barely set foot in the flat with his chips and saving John's life, he had forgotten about something – or rather, someone.

Katrina.

For a moment – just a moment – time seemed to slow down, like it had when he and Mary realised that John had been kidnapped. Except there was something different this time – his stomach plummeted, there was a larger sense of dread. There was nothing else in this text besides knowing that Katrina was about to be walked off a bridge somewhere in London, and a certain amount of time he had to save her in before it happened.

Bridges in London only ever went over the Thames.

"Oh my god..." he breathed, and he began running for that motorbike. He would drive past every bridge in London if he had to.

"Sherlock!" Mary called after him.

"I need to find Kat!" he shouted back.

If anything, admitting it out loud made him run faster.

He got to the bike and pulled the helmet on again, hopping onto it, vaguely remembering a time he was the passenger and it was Katrina driving it.

Sherlock was in Pimlico right about now, and he knew it would take about half hour going at the regular speed limit, but there was no time for that. He revved up the bike and sped off, aware that he could have the police on his tail in no time.

Frantic, Sherlock made his way down towards the embankment and soared past Vauxhall Bridge – she was not there. It would be a bridge where there was some kind of wide footpath and some form of concealment. That narrowed down his options, so Sherlock sped off towards Tower Bridge.

He went faster than he could have possibly imagined, and the sound of police sirens were welcome to his ears; although, he was actually surprised that he hadn't been chased when he and Mary were on their way to the church yard. If anything, this just made Sherlock go well above and beyond the speed limit, but it still wasn't fast enough.

He slowed on the approach to the bridge, just in time to see someone falling off of it.

Sherlock didn't wait for the bike to properly stop, he just jumped off at the best moment he could, throwing off the helmet in the process.

He got out his phone and called his brother.

"Get the police off my back, and get a car to Tower Bridge, north side!" Sherlock shouted down his mobile, hanging up and pocketing his phone before Mycroft could even respond.

He ran down to the actual river bank, peeling off his coat and jacket, dropping them onto the dirty shore.

There were no ripples in the water that would tell where Katrina's exact location was, but Sherlock waded into the river, beginning to swim when he was struggling to keep his feet on the ground. He could remember exactly where she was walked off the bridge, and so swam in that general direction. It was dark, but there was some light coming down from the street lamps on the bridge above, and that was enough for Sherlock.

His heart was pounding. The water was bloody cold, that was for sure.

He stopped for a moment to tread water, looking up at Tower Bridge. Yes. It had been _that_ spot there.

Taking a gamble, Sherlock took a deep breath and dived down.

Eyes squinting through the murky water and the light becoming less and less when he went further down, Sherlock was essentially blind.

Until he bumped into something – someone. They were suspended. It _had_ to be Katrina.

He swam down a little further, and managed to untie the woman from the weights attached to her feet, and began to pull her to the surface.

Sherlock gasped as he took in the fresh air; with an arm around Katrina, he slowly made his way back to the shore, trying not to think about the worst that could happen.

It wasn't nice for her, but Sherlock found it easier to drag her along the bank and away from the water, back towards where he had deposited his coat. He pressed his fingers to her throat, trying to find some kind of pulse – it was there, but only just.

With that, he planted his hands over her chest and started to push, compressing it in a rhythm, each time becoming more and more desperate. All sorts of illogical things were running through his mind right now, most of all _"please, not you,"_ and _"it's my fault if you die."_

After some time, Sherlock leaned down and pinched her nose, tilting her head back and opening her mouth. He planted his mouth over her own, and started to exhale. This had to work. It had to. She couldn't – she wasn't _allowed_ to…

He went back to compressing her chest.

"Katrina..." His voice did not sound like his own. "Don't _you_ dare..."

For once in his life, Sherlock was uncertain of what to do. There was no time to get emergency help otherwise she really _would_ die.

And suddenly it hit him. The mounting sense of panic, the feeling that it was his fault if she died – that was _exactly_ what Katrina had gone through two years ago. When Moriarty had used her, she thought it was her fault that he had jumped off that roof. Is this what that felt like? The impending sense of doom? Sherlock also realised that out of everyone he knew, Katrina had gotten the closest – she'd gotten _ever so close_ to his own heart.

"Two years ago… don't make the same mistake I did..."

In a last ditch attempt, Sherlock raised his fist up and smacked down onto her so hard she coughed water all over him.

They were both a mess right now, but he could not be more pleased to actually see her own her eyes and move.

So when she threw herself at him, Sherlock was more than happy to hold her close, and he did not want to let her go again.

Never again.

* * *

"All of that from a riddle?" Katrina raised her eyebrows at him. He nodded solemnly. "And you… you..."

"I thought I was watching you die," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "It occurred to me that perhaps this was what you had gone through when you thought you were watching me die."

"Something similar yes, but I was also in love, don't forget that. And don't forget I'd been subject to Moriarty for some time. I felt far more broken than you could have done that night."

She didn't mean for that to come out sounding so bad, and was going to apologise for it but Sherlock waved her off. He knew exactly what Katrina meant, and that there was no malice behind her words, nor trying to belittle him. She was right, of course – there had been more factors contributing to her sense of doom than his in those situations.

The main thing Sherlock was grateful for, was that she outright understood him. She understood the… _sentiment_ behind what he was telling her.

"Why now?" Katrina quizzed him.

"I hadn't quite put together in my head how to tell you… also you have grown into a habit of doing more physical activities when in the room with me." Sherlock threw her a very pointed look to which she turned a little pink at. "Kat, we had an agreement..."

"I know, I know..." she sighed. "Once a week. On Fridays. Not seven times a fortnight. Maybe I'm just making up for lost time."

"Lost time?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"I mean, you're quite..." Katrina trailed off, going redder and redder in the face. Sherlock was out of his chair like a shot, now towering over Katrina with his hands on either side of her.

"Quite what?" He gently pressed his lips to her cheek, and lingered close enough that their noses were touching.

"Attractive..." Katrina breathed. He smirked, and pulled back, straightening out his suit. She scowled at him, her face returning to its normal colour. "And now suddenly you're not attractive… but also when I say lost time, I mean – I don't know. I liked the physical closeness with you then, and I like it even more now."

Sherlock nodded, unsure of what to say, but Katrina was perfectly fine with that. He wandered into the kitchen, and she knew he was going to make a cup of tea.

A sudden thought struck her.

"What would you have done? If I had died? What would have happened?"

Any sounds of tea making stopped. Katrina didn't dare glance over her shoulder at Sherlock, but she had a funny feeling he was looking at her.

"I'm uncertain," he said slowly. "Perhaps I would have mourned you like you did for me. Maybe I would have… I don't know. I've been down dark paths before, Kat, there's a high chance that death would have made it happen again. What about you? What if I were _actually_ dead?"

"Then we wouldn't be having this conversation. The past two to three months wouldn't have happened. I would have gone on as I had the past two years, I would not have reconciled with John, and I would probably have attempted to seduce your brother in an effort to fill some kind of void in me."

Sherlock made an inhuman noise, and Katrina finally turned to look at him. He was staring at her in shock.

" _Mycroft?_ Really?"

She shrugged. "You do realise when I was drunk one night I _really_ wanted to fuck your brother, right?"

He shuddered. "Mycroft failed to tell me that detail."

"I was sitting on his desk and everything..."

"Oh – please, stop!"

Sherlock was so disgusted by the idea of Katrina going for his brother that she couldn't help but laugh about it.

"Good thing you're alive then, I'd be attempting it a _lot_ more..."

"Dear lord, I should have just waited until you got back from work."

"That would have been a good idea, but it appeared you were desperate."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, _you're_ the desperate one."

Katrina narrowed her eyes at him, turned away from him and folded her arms, promptly beginning to sulk. That caused Sherlock to start smirking as he carried on with making a cuppa.

He knew exactly how to get under her skin, and it was highly entertaining.

* * *

 **Sherlock is that extra that he would pull someone out of work to talk to them about something mildly sentimental u know.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoyed! And please have a look at my Adlock fic if that takes your fancy.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


	26. The Sunshine Club: Jasmine Wilson

Since the Shooter's Hill case, Katrina had been all too aware of the fact that Sherlock was bored. The little band of university students had provided him with all the deductions he could possibly ask for and then some, but now he was itching for something else just as interesting.

It had also only been a week since he had solved the case. Despite it being a short one, he admitted it was a good one.

"I thought the writer one and her blonde friend were funny!" he whined on the Friday evening after Katrina got in from work. "Students are fascinating, aren't they?"

"They had us down to a T…" she murmured in response. "How many bets their entire uni knows we're having casual sex?"

"Oh, somebody posted about it on the university twitter, not that it's any trouble for us…" Sherlock gave Katrina a very pointed look, and she sighed.

"I'll phone Mycroft…" she said, wandering off to get her phone.

Sherlock grinned in satisfaction, but that joy fizzled off fairly quickly as he got all jittery again. He needed a new case. Katrina needed to find him one; he was going to shoot the wall otherwise.

Actually, he did shoot the wall, causing Katrina to come running in while on the phone to his brother.

"He just shot the wall!" She picked up a pillow from the armchair and threw it at Sherlock's head, but he caught it and tossed it back. Katrina ducked briefly. "Fucking hell… but yeah, think you can scare someone at that uni into taking that off of twitter? And just keep an eye on any associated accounts? … No, I can't do it. A few of the students are related to the case… I don't know… rumours spread? … Yeah, yeah, we'll put them away securely next time…" she rolled her eyes at that and Sherlock shot the wall again. "Oh for - Mycroft, I'm dealing with a puerile, gotta go."

After hanging up, she put her phone on the coffee table and went to wrestle the gun out of Sherlock's hands. He let her take it too.

As Katrina put it away in the desk, they both realised that they had been watched for at least a part of that mad conversation. The pair of them glanced at the doorway to see a well-dressed woman with the brightest blonde hair they had ever set their eyes upon. She appeared to be incredibly stunned by their interaction.

"Sorry, um, the lady downstairs said I could come up?" she was incredibly well-spoken, and Katrina set out a chair for her immediately, while Sherlock went to his blue one. After that, the blonde woman came to settle in the chair intended for her, while Katrina ended up in the red chair.

"Is your hair naturally that blonde?" Sherlock asked her. "This is one of those rare instances where I cannot tell the difference."

"Mostly natural, but I do have highlights put in every now and then," she replied. "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here so late in the day, Mr Holmes-"

"Sherlock, please."

"I wouldn't have come so late, but I was unable to come any earlier – it was a very… interesting day."

"Probably made even more interesting by our display a minute ago," Katrina murmured. Sherlock shot her a look, and she shrugged. "Am I wrong?"

"Actually, it was quite funny," the woman replied, a small smile coming to her face for a brief moment. "Anyway… My name is Jasmine Wilson. Um, I've ended up in a rather strange situation."

"Then please, get on with it, I have a set matter to attend to later on and I'd rather not cut time short on it," Sherlock said, his fingers coming together to steeple under his chin. He glanced at Katrina for a moment, and she rolled her eyes.

"I work at a family run business – it's like a little tourist-y, knick-knack shop. It's only open during the day and I don't make much from it. My brother helps me run it… anyway, about a month ago, he saw an advert in the newspaper about someone offering work for people with blonde hair. It was called 'The Sunshine Club.'"

Katrina's nose crinkled up at that. "Specific. _Very_ specific."

"It was just copywriting, but it paid well and I could go in the evenings after the shop was shut," Jasmine continued, ignoring Katrina's comment. "So I went to go and apply, only to find that there were… quite a lot of people with blonde hair about on the day as well. They saw me, asked a few generic interview questions, next thing I know I was hired. Turned out it was _more_ than just copywriting. And I wasn't the only one hired. The name of the man who hired me was called Duncan Ross.

"There were a whole load of us – all blonde – being paid to do copywriting in a sort of… weird exclusive club, in the middle of Mayfair. It's about a ten minute walk from the shop I work in with my brother. On weekends everyone would go for lunch and drinks there – in fact, it became a bit of a requirement. We didn't have to pay a single penny towards it."

Jasmine's voice held some sort of awe in it, like she still couldn't quite believe that she ended up being part of an exclusive club, even though it was pretty obvious the story was about to go downhill. There was no other reason why she was here.

"And then what happened once all the wonder wore off?" Sherlock raised a brow.

"It kept on for a month. Then today as we all went to the office, it was shut. A notice on the door said that the 'Sunshine Club' had dissolved. I did a bit of digging about where the office was, got in contact with the estate agents who told me that they had never heard of a Duncan Ross, but they did remember a man with bright blonde hair and they gave me a business card. Didn't get anywhere except a dodgy phone shop. And now I'm here."

Silence fell throughout the room. Sherlock and Katrina glanced at each other, clearly trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, which Jasmine had clearly picked up on.

"Are you not taking me seriously?" She frowned at them.

"No, we're not taking you seriously," Katrina said. "Sorry, it's a bit of a weird one. You got conned _big time._ Give me the business card, though, I can find out more about him than you could."

"Can you?" she replied, perking up a little and rifling through her bag to get out the card. She handed it to Katrina who pocketed it.

"Yeah. I can find out about dodgy people, and Sherlock can find out what on earth was going on with this… Sunshine Club."

"I'm taking the case?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose up at Katrina.

"You were shooting the wall," she reminded him through gritted teeth. "Of course you're taking the bloody case."

"Well then, Miss Wilson," Sherlock hopped up, "Drop me an email – address is on my website – with your details, where all the buildings are, and the contact details of your brother. I'd quite like to talk to him if I can." He wandered over to the living room door and gestured as if waiting for Jasmine to leave.

"You think my brother has something to do with this?" She stood and made her way to the door.

"I don't know. I still want to talk to him. I'll have it solved by Monday, I can assure you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Good night."

Sherlock shoved the poor woman out of the door and then closed it in her face. He glanced at Katrina who simply sighed.

"You actually think you'll have this done by Monday?"

"I had the other done in a day." Sherlock waved off her remark, going to sit back down in his chair. "But this one actually requires more thought, but I have you to do some digging as well."

Katrina groaned. "Since when did I become the information bank for the Holmes brothers?"

"Ooooh, I don't know, ever since you moved and then decided to accept a job from Mycroft?" Sherlock was beginning to get snarky again, and Katrina went into the kitchen in order to make a cup of tea. Not for Sherlock, but for herself.

"You're a menace. You have a case. Get on it."

"You know, this is one of those times where I could make a rather awful joke, but I'm not going to," Sherlock considered.

Katrina turned around after flipping the switch on the kettle, somewhat impressed. "Wow. I didn't even know you could think up such filth without help from me."

"One of the rare occasions," he shrugged, so Katrina dismissed it and went back to her tea making. She returned to the living room a minute later, settling in the armchair once more. "Don't you think it's funny how her brother urged her to take the job?"

Katrina took a sip from the cup. "Oh, so you _do_ think the brother had something to do with it? Surely that's a bit..."

"A bit what?"

"Obvious?"

"I have good reason to believe this case is nearly as simple as the Shooters Hill one," Sherlock mused. "You use twitter, yes?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"I need to find out who else was at this… Sunshine Club. Put out a tweet."

"Can't you do it?"

"No! I'm going to be dealing with the brother!" Sherlock looked at Katrina like she was stupid.

"Are we _seriously_ taking to twitter now?" she groaned, putting her cup on the coffee table and going to grab her laptop from the desk.

"People will be venting their frustration and wondering if anybody else knows about the Sunshine Club. It'll be minor news tomorrow morning, I can assure you of that much. People like to talk..."

"People like to talk a little too much, if you ask me..." Katrina sighed as she propped open the laptop and started typing away.

 _HacktrinaJenkins: Anybody involved in employment with The Sunshine Club, please contact me. Working on it with SherlockHolmes._

She closed the laptop and went to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair, leaning her elbow on his shoulder. He wasn't massively impressed by that.

"I think I'll have plenty of responses by morning," she told him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "But I kind of want to go to bed now, if you fancy joining."

"Maybe in a bit, I need to think. This case appears to be more than a simple con," he said, and Katrina made a humming noise of agreement. "And perhaps it's more than just the brother. It might not even have anything to do with the brother."

Katrina let out a light laugh. "And there we have it. You _actually_ exploring a couple of ideas. I'll leave you to it – you're the detective, after all."

She slid off the arm and wandered towards the bedroom, Sherlock staring after her.

"As you never cease to remind me."

* * *

 **As you can see, I'm doing my own version of "The Red Headed League." It's one of my favourite ACD stories.**

 **This chapter was giving me a bit of trouble, hence why it's shorter than normal and also like... super late. But there are other reasons for it being super late too, such as university and flat hunting. Those are out of the way for the summer now, though, so woo! And I have so much love for all of those who have been reading and catching up on this during my absence, as well as those who leave reviews. So lovely of you all.**

 **Comment?**

 **-OL.**


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